If God Would Send His Angels
by Just Silver
Summary: Harry makes a bargain. When Lucius comes to collect, will Harry follow through? slash
1. Default Chapter

Title: If God Would Send His Angels

Author: Just Silver

Rating: up to NC-17 in later chapters

* * *

The Lady with the Spinning Head is a club in the basement of an old brick warehouse. During the day, the ground floor of the building serves as a fashionable restaurant and the upper floors are deserted. At night, the back entrance is unlocked and a spiral staircase leads visitors either down to a hell of pulsating beats, neon drinks, and lithe dancers or up to a heaven of more personal pleasures.

Most guests choose to go downstairs and sign their souls away for a glass that never emptied, courtesy of a petite olive-skinned beauty named Kristine, and the opportunity to admire the dancers on the stage. Nights like thiswhen the air seems to have a body of its own as it shifts against the crowd, hot and heavy, and everyone in the room has just about given up trying distinguish dream from realitythe dancer is a haunted young man.

For him, midnight is where the day begins. He rarely rises before 10 PM and is never alert before 12, when he takes his place amongst the lights and is lost in the music. They can't touch him. He is barely aware they exist as he moves- hips swaying, fingers crooked in an invitation no one in the room is brave enough to accept. He doesn't know how delectable he looks, how green his eyes are, how many hearts he has broken. He doesn't go upstairs. No one can claim him as his skin is exposed inch by inch, defined by shadow. He is free. No one cares who he is, what he's done, or what he knows. All they expect him to be is eye candy and he fulfills that obligation quite nicely.

When the music stops, he doesn't hear the catcalls or the scattered applause. He leaves his clothing and the tips left by the appreciative audience. Dennis will collect them. All he does is dance and then disappear offstage. He emerges later fully clothed to sit at the bar and make idle chat with Kristine.

Tonight Kristine has a sly grin on her face. "There was a man here asking for you, " she says, filling his glass with soda. He laughs, running a hand through his messy black hair.

"What else is new?"

"He left a present." She slides a box across the counter.

"This one was rich," he muses, sipping his soda daintily as he eyed the box.

"What else is new?" Kristine echoes. "They all ask for you. If you'd only-"

"Give into Diane and let half this city bend me in half and fuck me till I bled?" he finishes, grinning. Kristine raises an eyebrow.

"I was going for something less graphic. But you could make a killing as if you don't nowand you could get away from here." He takes the box in his hands, the grin replaced by mild curiosity. "And before you ask: no, they didn't leave a card, so you can't return it."

"Damn," he replies sarcastically, though this is his usual procedure for gifts that aren't money. Anything else is too personal for him, too much like a claim. He opens the box causally, with a flick of his thumb and his jaw promptly drops.

"That expensive, huh?" Kristine says with a smirk, leaning over the counter, giving him a great view down her blouse, if he cared to look. "Holy shit!"

Expensive is one word. Classically ostentatious is another. And there are some that would call it Baroque. All are correct. In the unassuming black velvet box lies an exquisite, highly ornate, bejeweled silver serpent. He gapes and shuts the lid quickly.

"You have to return it, Kristine," he says, eyes darting to every darkened corner of the club.

"Are you crazy?" she asks, eyes wide. "That piece is worth a fortune!"

"And the man who owns it has a fortune to spare. Give it back to him," he insists, pushing the box into her hands.

" I don't know his name!" she protests, shoving it back at him.

"But he does," drawls a smooth, cultured voice. "Or have you forgotten me, Mr. Potter?"

The sound of glass shattering is the immediate reply.


	2. Memories

A/N: Flashback scene.  
  
Many many thanks to those who reviewed this fic. I'm short on time, so I won't type thank you's just now. I'll save them for chapter 3. Until then, know that you have my gratitude.  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not making money from it. Don't sue.  
  
Rating: R on ff.net...NC-17 versions of certain chapters will be available on my list. (see profile)  
  
***  
  
There is a flash of white light. The force knocks him off his feet, sending him into a wall.   
  
Dazed, he opens his eyes and whimpers piteously. He thinks he has blacked out, but cannot be certain. He knows without trying that his legs are useless, his wand is broken, and the fluid on his lips is blood. His blood. The rubble makes an uncomfortable pillow. Memory comes at first in pieces, then forms a clear picture. He, Ron, and Hermione had done a spell to kill Voldemort and the building had collapsed. A glance at the sizable pile of stone in the middle of the floor assures Harry that Voldemort is dead. But where are Ron and Hermione? He turns his head to look for them.  
  
"They are dying, Mr. Potter," a voice says.  
  
"No," Harry whispers. Lucius kneels beside him- an angel in the dust.   
  
"Yes. They are dying and there is no one to save them." Lucius' tone is flat, a statement of fact.  
  
"No!" Harry struggles to get up. "I have to-" Laughter, low and deceptively sweet.  
  
"And are you going to save them? You're dying yourself."  
  
"Please." Lucius starts at the plea.  
  
"What was that?" he asks, smiling.  
  
"Please save them." The smile disappears from Lucius' face and is replaced with the beginnings of a frown.   
  
"A Gryffindor to the last. You make no plea for your own life?" Harry coughs violently, shaking his head. He spits to clear his mouth. More blood. He shudders.   
  
Lucius eyes him thoughtfully, weighing his options. "Let's make a deal: your life in exchange for theirs. Since your life means so little to you, you must admit that's quite a bargain."  
  
"You said I was dying."  
  
"And so you are, but they don't have to." Harry's eyes narrow in thought.  
  
"My life for theirs?" Lucius nods. "Deal," Harry replies instantly.  
  
Lucius leans in, gathering Harry up in his arms. Harry would resist, but it is beyond his physical capabilities. "What are you doing?" he croaks.  
  
"Saving your life," Lucius replies. His lips press against Harry's, softly at first. Harry doesn't believe that a kiss or Lucius will save him, but if this is to be the only kiss of his life, he wants it to be a good one and he opens his mouth slightly for Lucius in invitation. Lucius takes it, his tongue slipping smoothly into Harry's mouth. This is more pleasant than Harry thought it would be. He always envisioned French kisses as something involving much more slobber. Harry thinks to himself that this might be arousing if he wasn't going to die shortly.  
  
He doesn't know exactly when he is fully healed. He only remembers that at some point he was able to arch up into Lucius' heat and Lucius pulled him closer. He moves down to place a kiss on Harry's collarbone. Harry hisses, wraps a leg around Lucius, realizes that he couldn't do that before. He hears a gasp he knows isn't his. He looks up to face Ron and Hermione, both very dirty, both covered with bright pink stripes across their skin where they have been freshly healed. They have bruises where the rubble struck them and blood where the debris pierced their skin, but they are fine-- except for the looks of horror on their faces.  
  
Harry freezes. Lucius notices his reaction and looks over his shoulder. He chuckles darkly. "Remember our deal, " he whispers. He kisses Harry once more for show and then disapparates.  
  
Ron and Hermione don't believe Harry when he says that his snog session with Lucius saved their lives. They think that he has lost his mind because an insane Harry is better than a traitorous Harry and those are the only explanations they will accept. Upon closer examination it becomes apparent that Harry is not insane and instead of the secret missions Dumbeldore sent him on, he is placed in Lucius' bed, at Voldemort's side, or conspiring with Pettigrew. Ron and Hermione don't say a word, but Harry can see the suspicions flitting behind their eyes  
  
Something is broken that day. Harry is offered the job Fudge held until his gruesome and not entirely unexpected death. He declines. Bureaucracy and rules have never agreed with him. He returns to school but is more alone than ever. His friends have deserted him in all but name. Everyone else he meets reveres him. He is disgusted. He feels unclean, cheap, and dishonest. School ends. He is invited to Ron and Hermione's wedding. He attends, makes his obligatory toast, and fakes a smile for the cameras. After the reception he runs.  
  
He is ill prepared for such an undertaking. Determined to leave the wizarding world and become invisible, he doesn't think to take anything except the money in his pockets and the clothes on his back. He barely refrains from snapping his wand, using it instead to summon documents he might need in the Muggle world. He keeps his name. That, at least, is his. He has more right to it than anyone.  
  
He sleeps the days away. He goes to work at night and comes home immediately afterward. He feels like he is waiting for something, an invitation to start his life, but one is not forthcoming in the mail and so he continues his routine. He has no lovers. His only real friend is Kristine. Despite the waiting, he is happy. He has something to do and no obligations to do anything except what he wants. But he is always pretending. It seems to be his destiny--- to always hide a part of himself. Then Lucius shows up and somehow Harry knows that a chapter of his life is finished.   
  
And that scares him to death.  
  
***  
  
Feedback is adored. 


	3. New Promises

A/N: Not much to say really...  
  
Thank you's are in order. So thanks to the following people for taking the time to comment: CaratGold (i remember you from Swan!) Francois Favier (mmmm...cocoa), Alicia Black, Heather M, Lady Phoenix Slytherin, Manda Lee04, Marselie, Jessyka, Dillon, Allana, Jo (*laughs* you almost scare me. almost.), Disgruntled Fox (thanks for the offer. i might just take you up on that), Bibayb (i haven't forgotten...^^;), SailorBaby16, and moonlightDream.  
  
***  
  
A smirk appears on the sharp features of Lucius Malfoy. The shifting lights of the club lend him a demonic aura, though most would agree that Lucius didn't have to borrow much. "I see your grace doesn't extend any further than the stage," he says dryly.   
  
Harry doesn't reply. Indeed he seems incapable of replying. Kristine casts him a questioning look. He doesn't see it, runs his hands over his eyes, shuts his mouth. He looks sick.   
  
"You are beastly difficult to track down," Lucius says. Kristine sets a martini down in front of him. He picks it up gently by the stem, sips it. An almost pleased look crosses his features and he sets it down. "And to think you've been working in my establishment for the past year."   
  
"Year and a half," Harry mumbles. Lucius nods in concession. Harry absorbs what Lucius has just said.   
  
"Wait, your establishment?" Another nod from the blond man. "You own this place?"   
  
"Mr. Potter, our relations are going to be quite difficult if you have trouble with the concept of ownership. 'My' as in 'belonging to me' as in 'I am responsible for what goes on here'." Lucius explains. Kristine goes to the other end of the bar so that the two men cannot hear her snickers.   
  
"But you hate Muggles," Harry says stupidly. He is off-balance, telling himself that this cannot be happening, while verifying with every sense he has that this is happening. Lucius shrugs.   
  
"Muggles are good for business," he replies. Harry swallows.   
  
"We have matters to discuss. Shall we go upstairs?" Harry has enough sense to realize that it wasn't a question. Lucius touches Harry's wrist. Harry recoils. It is barely noticeable, but Lucius notices. His fingers encircle Harry's wrist. Lucius leads him away from the bar-- from safety, familiarity, and  
  
Kristine. Harry stumbles, unsure, aware of everyone looking on as the Untouchable One was defeated, claimed at last. Harry blushes. He turns away from the eyes and tries to free himself from Lucius' grip.   
  
"Is there a problem?" Lucius asks. Harry glances around, a deer in the headlights. Lucius' lip quirks up at the corner. "Shy?" Harry shoots him a cold glare. Lucius smiles. "Of course you're not shy. Ignore them." Harry remains frozen to the spot. Lucius follows his gaze to the offending parties. He makes a gesture Harry can't see. An agonized scream sounds shortly after. Harry closes his eyes and follows Lucius up the spiral stairs and into a room at the end of a dark corridor.   
  
He opens his eyes and nearly weeps in relief. It is an office, expensively but simply furnished. He looks around. Lucius takes a chair along the wall. He waits for Harry, who crosses to the window and stares out at the skyline.   
  
"Don't make me keep my promise." He has thought of so many things to say to Lucius. So many ways of begging Lucius to untie the knot, so many ways of compensating him. When it comes time to voice them, all Harry can say is his most desperate thought. It is what he has been thinking all the way upstairs. /* Please don't say no. Don't make me stick to my promise.*/ It seems so long ago that he went to Lucius to...Harry furrows his brow. He can't remember why he went to Lucius.   
  
/* Harry shows up after graduation on Lucius' doorstep without having to be told. Lucius lives alone. Narcissa died several years ago from a rare disease. Draco had been killed by overexcited aurors too jittery to stop hexing long enough to identify who was on their side.   
  
Harry attended the funeral, having a great amount of respect for the younger Malfoy for choosing his own path. He laid roses on the coffin. They were white. Hermione and Ron had gone because Harry asked or, more properly, begged them to go. They grudgingly admitted that Draco had been a competent fighter.   
  
After the service, Harry had offered Lucius his hand. Lucius had stared at him.  
  
"My sincerest apologies for you loss, Mr. Malfoy," Harry said truly. Lucius took the proffered hand.   
  
"Thank you for the card," he said civilly.   
  
"You sent that bastard a card?" Ron hissed. Harry shrugged.   
  
"The man lost his son. And Draco was my partner." The Daily Prophet had a field day with that quote. Harry never knew the word "partner" had so many implications until he saw them all printed and used in conjunction with Draco and himself. His friends had not been pleased. Then again Harry hadn't pleased anyone since the Triwizard tournament.   
  
That had been when Ron and Hermione were talking to him. That is not the case as Harry rings the bell of Malfoy Manor. He is just as alone as Lucius. The remaining Malfoy opens the door himself. He looks haggard, like he has been up all night. He is surprised to see Harry, but no one is more surprised to see Harry at the Manor than Harry himself. He cannot think why he is here. He feels somehow obliged to be here. He has nowhere else to go.   
  
Lucius gives Harry an oversized, but strangely endearing set of rooms not very far from his own chambers. Harry remembers seeing furniture like this before, in a library book about art. The style is Art Nouveau. It is so striking it almost isn't beautiful. It is bold, dramatic, lush, and almost overpowering. At first, Harry is pleased. */  
  
Harry blinks. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"   
  
"Why did you leave?" Lucius repeats.   
  
/* Harry doesn't stay with Lucius long before he notices something very wrong about the man. It's his eyes. Lucius' eyes are matte silver-blue, distant, sometimes even vacant, like he lives in the past. But when he looks at Harry, his eyes positively shine. That in itself wouldn't bother Harry, if it weren't for the fact that Lucius stares. His eyes take in everything. Every curve, every line, every variation of color in Harry's skin is burned onto Lucius' retinas. Lucius's manner is nonchalant, indifferent even, but his eyes have a lunatic gleam and the way they focus on Harry makes Harry's skin crawl. */  
  
Harry shudders to remember it now. " I had to leave," he says.   
  
"Ah, yes, I understand perfectly. Sometimes the urge to sell your body can be quite overpowering." There is more than a little sarcasm in Lucius' voice.   
  
"What does it matter if I sell myself to the people downstairs or to you?" Harry retorts bitterly. Lucius looks like he is about to reply, but bites his tongue. He glares at Harry. Harry waits for Lucius to reply, slightly stunned at himself for what he had just said.  
  
"You want to break our deal?" Lucius asks coolly.   
  
"No, I actually wanted to extend it." Harry says, matching Lucius' earlier sarcasm.   
  
"Be serious."   
  
"Yes, I want to break our deal." Lucius sighs.   
  
"Well, I suppose we could..." Harry looks hopeful. "But then we would return to our pre-deal arrangement." Harry doesn't think he likes the sound of that.   
  
" Which is?" he asks suspiciously.   
  
"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Ron Weasley would die, of course," Lucius explains, steepling his fingers. Harry laughs darkly.   
  
"You really are a bastard, aren't you?"   
  
"I'll have you know that my parents were married a year before I was conceived and that I have no control over a blood contract." Harry definitely doesn't like the sound of that.   
  
"What, exactly, is a blood contract?"   
  
"A magical agreement sealed with blood. In the event that the terms of the contract are not met, the proper consequences happen automatically."   
  
Harry clenches his fists, resists the urge to punch the glass in front of him. He hangs his head, then sighs deeply. He turns to face Lucius, who is looking smug and triumphant, enthroned in a leather armchair. "Now what do I do?" he asks.   
  
"You could run again, though it is rather rude of you to assume I have nothing better to do than hunt you down," Lucius replies, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve.   
  
"You arrogant son of a bitch. How like you to assume that I'm doing this merely to inconvenience you." Lucius shot him a look of impatience.   
  
"You didn't let me finish," he says, his voice thin.  
  
"There's more? This I have to hear," Harry says with a smirk, crossing his arms across his chest. Lucius ignores him.   
  
"If you want to run again, I'll give you a head start. If I can't find you within two years, I'll release you from your contract." Harry is wary.  
  
"I thought you said you couldn't alter a blood contract," he says, cocking his head.  
  
"I can't, not without another blood contract."   
  
Those psychodreamy eyes meet Harry's. Harry catches Lucius' meaning and seizes the letter opener off the desk. Before Lucius can react, Harry jabs the letter opener into Lucius' palm. "Merlin, you didn't have to maim me!" Lucius cries out, eyes glittering indignantly.   
  
"I know. That was for fun," Harry replies, drawing a line across his own palm. He grabs Lucius' hand, secretly delighting when the other man winces in pain. "Swear. It."   
  
"I swear. If I don't find you within two years, I release you from our earlier contract."   
  
Harry releases the older man's hand, the knots in his stomach loosening as he dares to hope. Lucius removes a handkerchief from the pocket of his robes and wraps it around his injured hand. Harry grins at him. "Happy hunting, Lucius."  
  
For the first time in nearly two years, he disapparates. 


	4. A Dinner Guest

A/N: It's summer. That usually means I can update more, but anything is more than nothing, right?  
  
Thank you Siren of the DarknessFlame, Kenna Hija, Sinfulz, Escaped, Kenny7, Trafalger, Ice and Fire Vanessa, JasonIssacsIsSexyAsHell, BenjisVIP, and everyone else who has taken the time to review.

* * *

Lucius is the bane of Harry's existence, and that is putting it lightly. Voldemort is a mere inconvenience compared to Lucius. Lucius irks Harry on every level it was possible for a human to be irked and Harry owes him his life. Well, to be mathematically correct, Harry owes Lucius two lives.  
  
/Lost in his kiss with Lucius, images swim through Harry's mind. Some are of random things like blast-ended skrewts riding unicycles and juggling plates, but most are related. The most predominate image is that of a child. "Promise it." Lucius' voice is inside Harry's head, or at least that is what Harry assumes, since Lucius' mouth is otherwise occupied.   
  
Harry chooses not to understand what's being asked of him.   
  
"Promise it or they die here," Lucius says.  
  
"You're changing the bargain," Harry complains.   
  
"And?" Harry can hear the smirk in Lucius' reply. He feels the weight behind Lucius' words. The man has no qualms about letting Harry and his friends die.   
  
"I promise." Harry hears a gasp, looks up to find Ron and Hermione very much alive. He freezes. Lucius glances over his shoulder at Ron and Hermione and laughs, poisonous velvet rumble in his throat.  
  
"Remember our deal," he whispers.  
  
Their parting kiss is sour on Harry's lips. /  
  
Harry can go for weeks without remembering this scene, but when he does remember, he loses sleep, hope, sanity. He stares out of the window, regretting the bargain he will have to keep. But there is hope. If he can go far enough, maybe Lucius wont' find him.   
  
He is tired of the memory of Lucius. He is tired of remembering that kiss- not just the promise he'd made, but the physical aspects of the kiss. He wants a comparison. No, he wants more than that. He wants something to eclipse that kiss and burn the taint of Lucius out of him permanently.   
  
He is tired of being a Muggle. The Muggle world is vast, yes, but he has never been comfortable there and there must be places in the wizard world he can hide. Before he vanishes again, there are some things he'd like to take care of.  
  
The house looks tidy and respectable. Outside, there is hardly any evidence that this isn't a normal home. There is even a mailbox...albeit one with an owl perch and some owl treats. Harry knocks on the door nervously. He has never been here. He has never been invited. He had to send Hedwig to get the address. She had looked at Harry with the owl equivalent of surprise. Harry hadn't had anything for her to do in ages, but she had done her job swiftly and correctly.   
  
The door opens and a brown-haired woman with a baby on her hip opens the door. She nearly drops the baby in surprise. "Harry?" she whispers incredulously.   
  
"Hello, Hermione, may I come in?" She steps aside wordlessly. Harry smiles. Inside, the house looks much like the Burrow. For one, the house is much bigger on the inside. Then there is the matter of the little oddities that are on the shelves. And then there are the pictures. They wave to him from the wall and he swallows a lump in his throat when he realizes that the pictures are of the three of them--Ron, Hermione, and himself--at Hogwarts.  
  
He turns to face his hostess, who immediately snaps at him. "Where have you been for the past two years, Harry James Potter?" He jumps.   
  
"How did you know my middle name was James?" he asks. She shrugs.  
  
"I didn't. It just seemed like the most likely possibility." He grins and looks around.   
  
"Nice home you have here."   
  
"Thank you," she says curtly.   
  
"And what a beautiful child!" The child is indeed lovely. He is delightfully round and rosy-cheeked with big, golden eyes. His hair is darker than Ron's and redder than Hermione's and the only trace of the famed Weasley freckles is a light sprinkle across his nose. "Can I hold him?" Hermione hands Harry the baby without hesitation.   
  
"What's his name?"  
  
"H.D. Weasley," she says, beaming at her son.  
  
"H.D.?" Harry asks, puzzled. She nods.  
  
"Well, his first name is Harry." Harry blushes. "And his middle name- well officially it's just an initial- stands for Draco." Harry's eyes widen.  
  
"No!"  
  
"Yes." She giggles.  
  
"How on Earth?"  
  
"Well, secretly, I've always rather liked the name Draco and Draco did save our lives during the war once-"  
  
"Or three times."  
  
"No, you saved our lives three times during the war." Four, Harry corrects mentally.   
  
"I showed up, yes, but I wouldn't have known you were in danger if Draco hadn't kept telling me, 'Potter, you're incompetent Weasel is about to get himself and his girlfriend killed AGAIN'," Harry says, doing his best to imitate the Malfoy drawl. Hermione laughs.  
  
"Well, anyway, I convinced Ron that we owed Draco a debt and that the least we could do was give our child his initial." Said child begins to fuss.  
  
"And he went for that?" Harry asks, bouncing the child up and down in his arms. He goes cross-eyed and puffs his cheeks, earning a pleased gurgle.  
  
"He replied that if I followed that logic then I should name our second child after Snape. I told him that was a wonderful idea."   
  
Harry chuckled, only to be smacked lightly in the shoulder by Hermione. "How dare you change the subject! Where have you been?" she asks. Harry shrugs.  
  
"Around," he replies offhandedly.  
  
"Gee, that explains everything. One minute you're living with Lucius Malfoy and attending our wedding; the next, you're gone. Poof! Vanished! And no one has a clue where you disappeared to. I was beside myself with worry!" She smacks Harry again for good measure and takes H.D. out of Harry's arms. H.D. is giggling profusely.   
  
"You like your godfather, don't you? I knew you would. Yes, I knew you would," Hermione says in a high-pitched voice. The child squeals. Harry swallows.  
  
"I'm sorry. His what?" he asks, certain he has not heard correctly.   
  
"Oh, yes. He thinks that just because he dropped of the face of the earth, Mummy and Daddy forgot all about him. But we didn't, did we, poppet?" H.D. gurgles. "No, we didn't!"  
  
"You had forgotten about me before that," Harry says quietly. Hermione drops the baby talk and turns to face Harry, brows knit in puzzlement.   
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"The night we destroyed Voldemort, when you and Ron saw me and Lucius..." he trails off, loathe to recall the incident. Hermione blinks for a second.  
  
"Oh," she says finally. "I had forgotten about that."  
  
"Forgotten about it! You treated me like a pariah because of it!"  
  
"How would you feel if you had nearly died to save the world and then found your best friend, perfectly all right, dry humping the enemy?"  
  
"I wasn't dry humping Lucius Malfoy!" Harry insists hotly.  
  
" Right, well that's what it looked like from our angle."  
  
"What makes you think that I would be rutting up against Lucius, of all people, regardless of the angle?"  
  
"Let's see. You never dated anyone. You were partners with his son. You dragged Ron and I to the funeral. During negotiations with prisoners the only Death Eater you ever dealt with was Lucius and you two would be alone in a locked room for hours. Draco even used to invite you to the manor, for Christ's sake, and heaven help us if we could figure out how, but you always managed to return unscathed."  
  
"What does that have to do with anything?"  
  
"It makes for a lot of pieces that don't quite fit. Then add in a scene of you playing tonsil hockey with Lucius on a bloody floor and the picture makes sense."  
  
"You thought I was fucking Lucius Malfoy?" H.D. begins to cry. Harry sighs. " I'm with you kid."  
  
"How were we supposed to know different?"  
  
"You could have asked!"  
  
"Yeah, right. 'Pardon me, Harry, but are you having an affair with an evil blond man old enough to be your father and who might have had a hand in killing your parents?' I don't think that would have gone over very well." Hermione sticks a pacifier in H.D.'s mouth.  
  
"And then you went to live with Lucius and the only reason that man isn't in Azkaban right now is because you asked Ron to pardon him as a personal favor. What reason would you have for doing that if he wasn't your lover?" she asks over her shoulder, lowering H.D. into a playpen.  
  
"He saved our lives, Hermione."  
  
"Out of the goodness of his heart, I suppose?" she responds dryly as she drapes a blanket over her son. Harry has no reply.  
  
After a moment, Harry speaks. "I have never had Lucius Malfoy as a lover," he says firmly. His voice is so cold that Hermione stares at him in wonder.   
  
"Fine," she says.   
  
There is a moment of silence as they both stare at the floor, ashamed of having come to this, ashamed of mistrusting each other.   
  
"So," Hermione says at last. "Are you staying for dinner?"

* * *

So...more soon. By soon, I mean like within less than a month. Maybe less than 2 weeks. I have been remiss in my authoring duties. I apologize and I intend to make up for it. Meanwhile, be a dear and review!  
  
Love always,  
  
J. Silver


	5. How d'you like the new you?

A/N: Updated pretty much as scheduled. Check my profile to find out the projected date for my next update. It will also tell you which fics I'm actively working on at the moment.

Thank you SilverFox1, Daughter of Death and Avain for your comments.

* * *

Ron is nothing less than amazed to see Harry. Harry can tell at a glance that Ron too has forgotten the Lucius incident. This disappoints Harry deeply. It makes the past several years seem futile, meaningless.  
  
Ron asks what Harry does for a living. Harry replies that he is between jobs. Ron jokingly offers Harry a job killing vampires in Romania. Harry nearly gags on the predictability of Harry Potter continuing his legacy of defeating darkness. Then he stops to reconsider it. Romania is far. Lucius would never think to look for him in Romania, would he?  
  
Then he remembers that he has no personal desire to go to Romania. Then Ron suggests Egypt. He even offers to make arrangements for Harry to stay with Bill. Harry declines. He has no desire to impose upon Bill.  
  
"Well, there is a position available at Hogwarts," Hermione says. Harry snorts.   
"Please don't tell me it's Defense against the Dark Arts, Potions, or Quidditch related," he replies.   
"Harry, you can barely brew a potion to save your life. Why would I suggest you teach Potions?" Hermione asks shortly.   
"Never mind," he chuckles.   
"Actually, we have an opening in Divination."  
  
There is a moment of dead silence, until Ron simply cannot stand it and bursts out laughing.  
  
"But I'm not qualified to teach Divination!" Harry insists.   
"And Sybil Trelawney was? Besides, you're Harry Potter. Who is going to question your credentials?" she asks, tossing her hair. Ron grins at her and then at Harry. Hermione grins too. He knows what they're thinking. This is almost like old times- the three of them together. Harry swallows.  
  
"Hermione, can you make credentials for someone who doesn't exist?" She raises her eyebrow.  
"Why?" she asks suspiciously. Ron rolls his eyes.   
"Hermione! What a stupid question! The moment word gets out that Harry is teaching at Hogwarts, the Daily Prophet will be all over it!" Ron exclaims. "And then Hogwarts would be swamped with tourists."   
"Yes...and the Ministry hasn't caught all the Death Eaters yet, have they?" Hermione murmurs. "No," she answers her own question. "And then they'd all be after Harry." Ron nudges Harry.  
"They're always after you. It wouldn't matter if Hermione or I had slain You-Know-Who single-handedly. You still would have gotten all the press," Ron teases. Hermione eyes light up.   
"Of course! Do you remember? When we got married there were all those rumors of a new Dark Lord. No wonder you disappeared, Harry!"  
  
Harry knows that he should feel lousy for letting Hermione jump to this conclusion, but a greater part of him is relieved because now he doesn't have to tell them the truth. He wants to tell them the truth. The malicious, bitter part of him that he works very hard to suppress wants to tell them exactly why he disappeared. It wants to tell them what happened the day they killed Voldemort. It wants to tell them why he has to disappear again and that they owe everything to him while he has nothing. But that is a selfish thought and Harry knows it. So he settles for trying to massage the idea out of his skull.  
  
He smiles tiredly. "I need to be somebody else," he says. "Will you help me?" This was not his original plan at all, but he had not counted on his old friends being so hospitable. Hermione and Ron grin again and Harry grins too, because he can feel it also. This is exactly like old times- the three of them together...and plotting.  
  
"Well...you'll be needing a new name. Don't let Hermione pick one out for you. You've met our son, haven't you?" Ron groans.  
  
Hermione promptly hexes him.  
  
Harry has to change his name, but that's okay. It's necessary and he has outgrown his attachment for it. It is discarded like so much of his life. What he leaves behind, he doesn't miss anyway. He leaves behind unwanted fame, sorrow, and a man with a past more unhappy than his own. But then again, he had thought he had left all that behind before.  
  
The spell they use is illegal. Hermione and Ron don't have to tell him that. Hermione does take the time to tell Harry that this spell was a popular one for murderers. Small wonder. The spell is the ultimate for changing appearance. Hermione and Harry get creative while Ron just shakes his head in amusement.  
  
They decide to keep his hair black, but they make it longer and heavier. She makes him taller and lets him keep his overall body shape, but makes him a bit more buff. His face is made more square, his features become a bit bolder and more angular. His scar is erased. She lets his eyes stay green and she gives him a pair of glasses with wire frames and red lenses. And an earring. And a tattoo. And a pair of tight leather pants.  
  
"Hermione!" Ron whines. "How do you expect anyone to learn a thing when you've got him all tarted up like that?"   
"Well, they can't see the tattoo when he has a shirt on," she says. Her voice sounds apologetic but her face is positively gleeful as she eyes Harry. He winks at her. She pretends to swoon. Ron rolls his eyes.  
  
"Besides, " she says, recovering. "If everyone is busy drooling, they won't notice Harry's stunning lack of information."   
"Because they'll be staring at his stuning arse!" Ron retorts.   
"You think my arse is stunning?" Harry asks, grinning.   
"Yes, Harry, I think your arse is very stunning. I've always thought your arse was stunning and it has been my deepest desire since I hit puberty to have you and Hermione at the same time," Ron says.   
"Whoa, easy on the sarcasm there, Ron. You might hurt somebody," Harry quips. Hermione giggles.  
  
"Do I really look that good?" Harry asks, his curiosity having been aroused. Hermione grabs his hand and drags him to the bathroom.   
"Look," she commands, flicking on the lights. Harry's jaw drops open. Hermione claps her hands. "Well?" Harry simply gapes.  
  
"Well, I'd certainly shag me, that's for certain," he says at last. She slings an arm around his shoulders.   
"I think you're ready," she says.   
"Heaven help Hogwarts," Ron sighs.

* * *

So how was it? I'm off to work on the next chapter of this and the much delayed Chapter 22 of Lovers and Family. Until next time, please be a dear and reveiw!

Love,

J. Silver


	6. Return to Hogwarts

A/N: For Rubicon...because she asked.

Thank you to all those who reveiwed. I much appreciate it.

* * *

It is announced in the Daily Prophet that Jonathan S. Scryer will be the new Divination instructor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  
  
"Hermione! Scryer? How much more made up can you get?" Harry grumbles.  
"Oh for crying out loud, " she scoffs. "Do you even know what 'Sybil' means or did you ever notice that Fate was cruel enough to give Remus his name and then have him bitten by a werewolf? Truth is stranger then fiction, Ha-- Jonathan." Harry looks to Ron for assistance. Ron just shrugs.  
"I told you she was bad with names," he said. Hermione sends him a death glare. Ron decides to shut up and let his wife continue on with the business of making Harry regret his decision.  
  
They are standing in the Great Hall of Hogwarts waiting for the start of term banquet. Harry is getting impatient. He leans against the wall, checking his watch."How long do we have to wait?" Harry asks.  
"Banquet starts in half an hour," Hermione replies crisply. "You will be fashionably late."  
"Why?" Harry whines. He also receives a death glare.  
"Would you rather be upstaged by Snape?" she asks.  
"How hard can it be to make an entrance?" Ron sighs. "All he has to do is walk in, flash everyone a wry smile and saunter up to the professor's table. Between the fact that he's new and his pants are skintight, all eyes will be glued to him anyway. Just don't trip or anything humiliating like that, Harry."  
"Jonathan," Hermione corrects.  
"Thanks, Ron," Harry replies dryly.  
"Don't mention it, mate."  
"Oh, Ha-Jonathan," Hermione starts.  
"Hah," Ron says. "It's not easy, is it?"  
"I did mention that you're head of Gryffindor House, right?" Harry has a mini heart attack.  
"I'm what? You can't keep designating me things and not telling me beforehand." She smiles sweetly.  
"This is the last one, I promise. Please, Harry? I can't do it, not with looking after the baby and whatnot." Harry sighs.  
"Fine. I'll do it."  
"You did it again!" Ron cries joyfully.  
"Did what?" Hermione asks.  
"You forgot his name," Ron replies smugly.  
  
Hermione promptly hexes him. Again.  
  
Harry's entrance is fantastic. It couldn't go better if he had rehearsed it because there has always been something about him that draws people. Maybe it is his eyes. Maybe it is the way he stands- defiance and innocence combined in a way that makes the onlooker want to protect him and test those defenses at the same time. Maybe it is the way he walks- his steps are light, smooth, confident. He flashes a small smile to his flabbergasted students and strides past them. He hears a small gasp behind him and his smile widens as he laughs silently at Hermione's choice of pants.  
  
McGonagall looks up sternly over her spectacles at the new- and latecomer. "Professor Scryer, I presume?" Harry bows.  
"Headmistress McGonagall, a pleasure to meet someone as capable as yourself." He is deliberately charming. He knows how to be. Draco taught him. It is not a skill Harry uses often, but when he does use it, he makes it count. McGonagall looks less stern. She even almost smiles at him.  
"You are late, professor." He bows his head momentarily.  
"I missed my train and I've never been to Hogsmeade before," he explains.  
"You are aware that you will be head of Gryffindor house?"  
  
"Yes, I am, headmistress." Hermione nearly chokes on her pumpkin juice at the way Harry pronounces the word "headmistress". Harry tries very hard not to laugh. He likes the way his new voice sounds. It is very "bedroomy" as Ron put it, while glaring sternly at his wife.  
  
"What kind of word is 'bedroomy'?" Hermione had asked. Ron had flushed.  
"Bedroomy. It's the kind of voice that goes straight from 'hello' to wild sex to 'Good night. I'll call. Really'." Harry had shifted uncomfortably. All this talk of him and sex coming from Ron was really creepy.

But the voice is very distracting and he succeeds in making McGonagall blush. Oh, this year is going to be so much fun.  
"Try to set an example for your students," she says, recovering quickly.  
"I am terribly sorry. It will not happen again."  
"See that it doesn't." Her voice is stern this time. "You may take your seat, Professor Scryer." Harry smiles.  
"With pleasure." More blushing from MgGonagall and every female within earshot.

Hermione kicks Harry when he sits down beside her. "Ouch! What was that for?" he asks, rubbing his shin.  
"For being a shameless tease."  
"I only did what you told me to," Harry protests.  
"Oh sure, blame it on me," Hermione replies, rolling her eyes.  
"You told me to distract them, so I am."  
  
Hermione shoots him a glare that suggests that she doesn't agree with his reasoning in the least, but she stays quiet. Harry looks around the Great Hall. His eyes automatically travel to the Slytherin table. He is momentarily taken aback by Draco's absence. Draco glaring down his superior pureblood nose at Harry while surrounded by his two thugs had become such an integral part of Harry's experience at Hogwarts that it didn't truly seem like Hogwarts without him.  
  
Harry does not dwell on those feelings long. It seems disrespectful to Draco's memory. He can hear what Draco would say to him now.  
  
/  
  
It was Tuesday. The sky was blue. The ground was black, blanketed with the bodies of fallen aurors, students, and some of Dumbledore's volunteer forces.  
"Stop sniveling, Potter," Draco snapped.  
"We lost so many," Harry replied, trying to control his sobs.  
  
"Yes." There was something in Draco's tone that made Harry look up. His partner looked different. His face was pale, his hair was mussed, and he looked weary, but that wasn't unusual. They had all been run ragged for at least a month. Draco surveyed the gruesome scene quietly, looking very grave. He turned to Harry.  
  
"You can't change the past. Don't shed tears for what can't be undone or what couldn't have been done any better."  
  
It was a compliment. Harry knew it. He also knew that the best way to accept a compliment from Draco was to ignore it or give a subtle nod in reply. He chose to ignore it.  
  
"You know what your problem is, Potter?" Draco asked, a shade of his infamous arrogance coloring his voice. Harry smiled a little.  
"What's my problem, Malfoy?"  
"You care too damn much at the worst possible moment. It clouds your judgment."  
"And your problem is that you don't give a fuck."  
"If you wanted one, you just had to ask." /

Harry smiles to remember the scene now. He wonders if Draco was serious. He wonders if he could have loved Draco. He decides that following that train of thought would be equivalent to crying over the past. He abandons it, and mentally steels himself to deal with the task at hand.

* * *

School soon, but I should get in a few updates before then. Feedback is always welcome.

With Love,

J. Silver


	7. The New Generation of Slytherins

A/N: So sorry for the delay. This chapter was NC-17. I tried to tone it down a bit, but it might still be a bit strong for R, so...

I won't tell the mods, if you don't, k?

Thank you to those who reviewed chapter 6:

Tinkita, Cataclysmic, aradia-malfoy, Helga of Wurm, Klover P, Skysha-Tranqui, Lyla Hayden (sybil is another word for someone who can see the future, and Remus is from an old myth about the founding of Rome. The twins Remus and Romulus (?) were left on a hill to die, but a she-wolf found them and raised them.), Curely Green, and Avain.

-

The first thing Harry does is to remove any trace of incense and perfume from Trelawney's old classroom. Then he transfigures the chintz poufs into something more suitable for sitting- black chairs with armrests. He also replaces the pink and blue teacups with ivory ones. Finally he adds light and ventilation.

His first class is an unparalleled disaster. Twenty pairs of eyes are glued to him. Harry feels positively indecent in a tight black shirt with more zippers than could ever be necessary. He briefly wishes that he had worn robes, but they felt uncomfortable after his hiatus from the wizarding world. So he wore dragonhide pants instead. What had he been thinking?

He clears his throat to attract attention, though there really is no need for him to do so. Even the whispered conversations are about him. The class quiets down instantly. He is almost nervous, but he has not spent his life being a hero and a paragon to be afraid of a little admiration now. He perches on the edge of his desk casually, one leg crossed over the other as he looks over the top of his glasses at the charmed seating chart.

"My name is Jonathan S. Scryer. I will be your Divination professor this year." Harry's voice is low, rich, and instantly catalogued in the subconscious of his students to be replayed over again in daydreams and fantasies. A hand goes up. "Yes, Mr.-"Harry scans the seating chart. "Hornby?"

"What does the 'S' stand for?" Harry blinks.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What does the 'S' stand for? Or do you just have a random initial in the middle of your name?" Harry remembers why he doesn't like Slytherin house.

"I fail to see how that's relevant to class," he replies, adjusting his glasses.

"Well, it isn't really, but the sixth years have a bet on it." Hornby, N., as he is listed on Harry's seating chart, flashes Harry a suave smile. Not to be outdone by a student, Harry removes his glasses and looks directly at his student.

"What do you think it means, Mr. Hornby?" Hornby, N.'s pale blue eyes don't turn away from Harry's gaze.

"I don't have an opinion myself, but popular vote says that it stands for 'Sexy Bitch'." There are several gasps from the girls and a few chuckles from the Slytherin boys. Hornby smiles apologetically, but Harry is not placated.

"Five points from Slytherin, Mr. Hornby, for improper language. Besides, 'Sexy Bitch' is two words and would therefore require two initials."

Harry neglects to mention that with the use of a hyphen, it can be made into one word and he reminds himself never to let Hermione name anything ever again. He is convinced that this was her way of repaying him for his two-year absence, but he grits his teeth and bears it. She is doing him a favor, after all.

The results of the first test are miserable.

"You folks need to spend a little more time studying and a little less time staring at my arse," Harry comments as he hands back the test papers. Several students blush deeply.

"Stop tempting us and maybe we'll stop staring," a voice said.

"Mr. Hornby, that was a joke. I don't expect all of you to be staring at my arse." There is a nervous silence as everyone suddenly finds his or her teacups very interesting.

"You mean to tell me that you've all been staring? Without exception?" The crimson blush stealing across some very "straight" boys' faces is all the confirmation Harry needs.

"Well, you've got a very nice arse," said a Slytherin girl whom Harry has privately dubbed "The Ice Queen". He is almost flattered that she would deign to look upon his arse. "Besides, your pants are exquisitely tailored. Where did you get them?"

"Valmont."

"In London?" the Ice Queen purrs.

"Paris," Harry replies.

"You've been to France?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Oui, mademoiselle." She rattles off a sentence in French. Harry rattles off a reply.

"And that, my fellow Slytherins, is how you deduct points in French," Hornby, N. (sometimes called "Son of Satan" by Harry) laughs. He turns to the Ice Queen. "Handcuffs, Anastasia? I wouldn't have thought you were so tame."

"Not all of us share your appreciation for being whipped, Nicholas." /Ouch. 10 points for the Ice Queen/Harry thinks. Nicholas bows.

"Touché, mademoiselle." Anastasia waves her hand dismissively.

"Pas de touche, Nicholas. I was merely stating a fact." Nicholas' smile is deadly.

"Did your fiancé tell you that, Anastasia darling?" Harry knows who the Son of Satan is referring to- a silent seventh year with an impassive face who comes from a very old family. Nicholas pouts. "And he promised me he wouldn't kiss and tell." The Ice Queen shoots Nicholas a look of pure fury. / Set. Match./ Harry thinks, very glad he never went to school with this particular set of Slytherins.

As entertaining as it is to watch the two Slytherins fight for the title of Cattier-Than-Thou, Harry cannot let it continue. Any minute now, they will start hexing each other and that could get very ugly very quickly. He coughs sharply, shooting a glare worthy of Snape at all of his students.

"To bring this conversation back on topic, why are you failing my course?" he inquires.

"We are simply not motivated, Professor, " replies Son of Satan. Harry raises an eyebrow.

"Receiving a passing grade and graduating are not enough motivation?" he asks. Nicholas smirks.

"That would be too much like learning for learning's sake. With that kind of logic you should be head of Ravenclaw house. We are Slytherin; we never do anything unless we can get something out of it." Harry is suddenly aware of a pressing headache. He attributes it to the fact that he feels like a sheep thrown amongst the wolves. He pulls the tie out of his hair. It falls around his face and the sudden release of tension dulls his headache.

"What kind of motivation do you want?" he sighs.

Once he allows himself to be cross-examined by his students and he plays "sharp schoolmaster" for awhile, his students show actual promise. He is pleased, but doesn't think he really has anything to do with their progress. He does his best to give them accurate information but more often then not, he simply exposes them to books he has decided are the most helpful and provides the students with basic tools for the craft.

Occasionally he surprises himself by predicting a minor occurrence, like the disappearance of Ashleigh Bancroft's cat, the collapse of the top floor of the Astronomy Tower, and Nicholas Hornby's advances on him. But anyone with eyes could see that coming…well, probably not because anyone with eyes is staring at Harry during the lesson and completely oblivious to anything else.

Nicholas is attractive; Harry won't deny that. Nicholas is also rich, arrogant, uncannily collected, and blond. The irony of the situation is not lost on Harry, who does his best to discourage his pupil. He tries "I'm too old for you", "I am your teacher", and "It's unethical." Nicholas responds, "You're only four years older than me", "I'm well aware of that", and "I don't care. I want you."

Harry is so over Slytherin tenacity.

He is very aware that he is just a conquest to Mr. Hornby, who is the biggest rake Hogwarts has seen in several years. Harry would feel bad about using that exact term, but if the shoe fits, the duck quacks, and the bell tolls, then why not? The boy can play the tart like no one's business. Nicholas has no morals, just standards: anything that is beautiful and in some way unattainable is automatically worthy of dogged pursuit. It is positively indecent and Harry wants no part of it. Despite Nicholas' repeated attempts, Harry successfully evades him for months.

Until he has another dream.

It does not take him long to find Nicholas. Nicholas' smile is almost diabolical when he sees Harry and he kisses his professor greedily. It has been a long time since Harry's last kiss. He is slow to react, but eventually responds, fingers entwining in Nicholas' hair, yanking his head back, his mouth trailing kisses down the boy's neck, sucking hard. The boy gasps when Harry reaches his collarbone. Harry's free arm snakes around Nicholas' waist, pulling him closer.

It is a delicious sensation to have something so warm, soft, and positively eager in his arms. Nicholas's willingness does nothing to abate Harry's hunger. It makes it unbearable- the need to have more, to forget, to hear Nicholas' cool, mellow voice raised to a desperate pitch, to break the boy's composure.

His hands follow the lines of Nicholas' body, his lips never far behind. Nicholas begs and when Harry doesn't respond, Nicholas begs in French, and when that doesn't work, he abandons sentences altogether, creating a litany Harry understands perfectly. Harry's smile is twisted. He slides into Nicholas so easily it should be a crime and probably is. Nicholas moans- a sound Harry finds intriguing. He is determined to make Nicholas do it again. He moves inside Nicholas, closing his eyes. The blonde is so hot, so smooth, and Harry's mind is blissfully blank of everything except this moment and the boy beneath him. A ragged gasp captures Harry's attention. Harry echoes his movements. Nicholas gasps again, his eyes rolling back as he lets out a low moan. Harry is enthralled, finding it impossible to take his eyes off Nicholas, impossible not to stare at him in pure awe. He leans forward and captures Nicholas' lips. A pair of arms wraps around his neck and Nicholas pushes his hips against Harry, forcing Harry deeper. Harry's breath catches in his throat. He pushes back and Nicholas moans again, clenching around Harry. Harry discovers that Nicholas is a screamer. Harry chuckles as he reaches his own orgasm. He closes his eyes, waits for his breathing to return to normal.

It is positively unhealthy how fast Harry can begin to hate himself. He goes from sexual predator to repentant sinner in 2.6 seconds./Damn Lucius/ he muses. /This is his fault for not being here./ Of course, the more rational part his mind demands to know how Lucius' absence could be responsible for Harry's earlier lust-driven actions. That part of his mind coyly asks how Lucius would have prevented the problem. Harry quickly recognizes the danger in that question, bites his lip, and doesn't answer.

He promises himself that this will be the only time.

However, he overestimates himself. He is not the choirboy he once pretended to be. These days, he can't even produce a flimsy imitation. He takes Nicholas wherever he can find him- in hallways, disused classrooms, his own classroom, the Slytherin dorms. There is a rumor circulating that Nicholas has given up his other relationships. The very idea makes Harry smile in a way that would have shocked his friends. He is not surprised. It was on his suggestion that Nicholas dropped his other lovers. He really doesn't need them anymore. Every time Nicholas has a desire, Harry is there. Besides, Harry really doesn't like to share his toys.

It is three months into their tryst before Harry starts experience real guilt- the debilitating kind. They are in a hallway. Harry is on his knees, sucking off his young paramour. He watches Nicholas intently, watches his breathing, the flash of his eyes beneath the curtain of hair that has fallen in front of his face. Nicholas screams as Harry brings him to orgasm.

Harry rises, catching the Slytherin around the waist before his knees give away. Nicholas shifts, bringing his lips to Harry's and kissing him fervently. Harry pushes back his hair and sees something in Nicholas' eyes that he was certainly never meant to see. It disappears quickly. "You're still-"Nicholas began, reaching between them.

"Don't worry about it, "Harry murmurs, trying to bury his feelings. He will worry about them later. Nicholas is persistent.

"Mmm, but I want to. Let me take care of it, Jonathan." Without waiting for a reply, Nicholas undoes the fastenings to Harry's pants. He pushes them down along with Harry's underclothes and drops to his knees. "Shall we do it this way?" he asks. Harry is silent, taking a moment to appreciate the sight before him. Nicholas interprets his silence as lack of interest. The boy stands. "Or would you prefer to fuck me?" he asks, a small smile playing at the corners pf his mouth.

"Such language, Mr. Hornby," Harry chuckles. "I should take points away from Slytherin house for such vulgarity and a decided lack of originality." His arms wrap around Nicholas and the boy shudders. Harry lowers his voice for effect. "But then again, sometimes there is something to be said for the tried and true."

Afterwards he leaves Nicholas quickly, avoiding the hurt and confused look that crossed the boy's face upon Harry's abrupt departure. Harry locks the door to his room, cursing himself, wishing he could forget what he saw in Nicholas' eyes. Then he wouldn't have to hate himself for not noticing it sooner, for continuing to use the boy as a convenient way to forget about his problems. But it's too late for that now because Nicholas loves him and the truth is that when Harry comes, the blonde he's thinking of isn't always Nicholas.

-

Tsk...Harry's not being very good in this fic is he? Chapter 8 will be coming to a website near year soon, but meanwhile, please reveiw. Comments, criticism, suggestions, bribes, threats- all welcome!

Love,

J. Silver


	8. New Losses

A/N: Quick update, not because I wrote that quickly, alas, but because, right now, I'm experiencing chapter overlap. I'm trying to write faster to try to avoid a huge lag in between chapters. It should work out ok. crosses fingers

Thank you Curley Green, Avain, Keladry6, xXx Silver Star xXx, HP Girl 28, cocopops, and Starry Gazer.

* * *

/The room is small, unadorned, and poorly lit. The air is heavy and positively crawling with wards to prevent any kind of magic being used. In the center of the room is a table with two chairs. One of the chairs is occupied by a man in black robes and a white mask. The door slams shut behind Harry, who smirks. "Mr. Malfoy," he says. The mask comes off- the face underneath as pale and smooth as the one laid upon the table. Lucius nods and with one of his perfectly lovely, perfectly useless, perfectly lethal hands makes a motion to the empty chair.

"Mr. Potter, so glad that you could join me. Won't you have a seat?"

Negotiations with Lucius are long and difficult and, deep down, Harry loves them. It is a game the man and the boy play. The rules are simple: be civil and be subtle, say one thing with your voice and another thing with your eyes, say what you mean but never ever mean what you say until he agrees to it. Everything depends on him- the man in the other chair. Everyone else is irrelevant. Voldemort doesn't matter in this room. Dumbledore doesn't matter in this room. God doesn't matter in this room because you are God. You are bargaining for lives and he is the devil trying to take them away.

Harry knows that a large part of the excitement he gets from negotiating prisoner release is due to the fact that he's negotiating with Lucius Malfoy. He refuses to negotiate with anyone else. Likewise, Lucius doesn't negotiate with anyone but Harry. They hold their game too dear. It is the breaking point-the part of the battle that feels most like winning or losing.

Grudgingly Harry begins to respect Lucius as their negotiations go on. He knows Lucius begins to respect him as well because Lucius' sneer is replaced by something with less contempt. But for all the mutual respect that is flowing between them, Harry cannot bring himself to like Lucius. When their eyes meet, there is always a part of Harry that flinches instinctively and says, "Monster." /

That part of him is whispering that same word over and over again-in reference to himself. Nicholas stirs beside him, his arms pulling Harry close. It is amazing that even in his sleep, he manages to find Harry's tattoo and trace the coils of the serpent along Harry's spine. It is an endless source of amusement to Harry-his lover's obsession with his tattoo-but tonight it makes Harry sad. Nicholas, for all his deviltry, looks innocent in his sleep and he is. He has never known death, fear, failure, pain, despair.

He has never said the words "I love you" to Harry, but he doesn't have to. Harry knows. He knows by the looks that Nicholas gives him. He knows by the way those pale blue eyes soften momentarily when they land on him and by the little smile that never fails to flit across Nicholas' lips when he and Harry meet. He knows it by the sheer effort Nicholas puts into Divination, never expecting Harry to lower the bar for his lover. He knows it by the way Nicholas sighs contentedly in his arms and by the gleam of pride in Nicholas's eyes when Harry delivers a snappy retort to an impudent student and by the way Nicholas hands tighten at his sides when someone dares to make a pass at Harry.

There is no doubt that Harry is fond of Nicholas. He adores the way Nicholas pouts when he is insulted and the deadly smile that spreads across his face before he makes a devastating reply. He likes to hear Nicholas' voice- whether it is simply asking a question or loaded with meanness or low and breathy in Harry's ear. Nicholas' skin is the softest thing Harry has ever known and the boy smells good enough to eat. He loves the look of impish delight that crosses Nicholas' features when he knows he is being a brat. He is in awe of Nicholas when he looks thoroughly fucked- hair mussed, skin flushed, lips swollen and utter contentment stamped upon his face.

Yes, he is very fond of Nicholas, but for all the delight and adoration Harry takes in Nicholas, he does not love him. It is missing that raw, sucker-punched, gasping for air, drowning in a deep well, dying without you, "I'm sorry. Are there other people on the planet? I saw only you," quality Harry associates with love. Harry admits that maybe he has just seen too many Muggle movies and read too many books and has no real concept of what love actually is, but he does not think this is it. The form beside him is not love, but Harry hurts for him very much. Harry aches to think of how is going to tell Nicholas, dreads the possibility of seeing the hurt on Nicholas' face. He knows that Nicholas will never admit to being hurt, just as he may never admit to love. He is too proud for that, but Harry would know it regardless.

It is a decision in which both options suck: live with the guilt of participating in a lie or live with guilt of having inflicted pain.

Nicholas turns, his lips brushing Harry's chest, the contact sending electric shocks across the surface of Harry's skin. The hands absently tracing Harry's tattoo grip Harry firmly, and in one smooth motion, Nicholas manages to turn Harry over and slide under him. Harry laughs softly. "'Lo."

"Mmm. Again?" Nicholas asks, his voice is thick with sleep and something else that makes Harry's pulse quicken.

"You're not even awake yet," Harry replies, incredulous.

"What better way is there to wake up?" Nicholas says, wrapping his legs around Harry's waist.

Harry has to admit that Nicholas' argument is flawless.

"Teenagers," he snorts. Nicholas grins, looking completely worthy of adoration with his eyes still half-closed.

"What's the matter? Did I wear you out?" he teases. He grinds his hips against Harry's. "It doesn't feel like I've worn you out."

"Oh, really?" Harry asks, raising an eyebrow.

"You know what your problem is? You're spoiled. You don't know how lucky you are to have a sexy blonde in your bed, naked and begging you for sex," Nicholas says solemnly. Harry looks thoughtful.

"Perhaps," he agrees. He kisses Nicholas, drawing little sighs from the boy as their tongues intertwine. He pulls back, eyes sparkling. "Or perhaps I just like to hear you beg." Nicholas' eyes widen. "And maybe if you beg nicely, I'll spank you." Nicholas' laugh is both astonished and delighted.

"Well-remembered," he chuckles.

An eternity passes. Harry holds Nicholas in his arms, nuzzling his neck and shoulders, ignoring Nicholas' pressing need, wondering if he can make Nicholas come from just this. But Nicholas seems to have caught onto Harry's game. He wrenches away from Harry's lips. "You are a very wicked man, Mr. Scryer."

"Am I?" he says, grinning evilly. Nicholas pouts.

"Yes, you know I'm leaving tomorrow for Romania and you insist upon being a tease."

"Romania?" Harry asks, confused.

"Yes, Romania. For spring holiday? I'm staying with my aunt Camilla." Nicholas' eyes narrow. "I told you this before, didn't I?"

Harry struggles to remember. He recalls something about Romania, but he cannot make the connection between Nicholas and Romania. "No, you didn't," he says, still trying to remember why Romania is important.

"H'm. Between the sex and the witty repartee, it must've slipped my mind." Nicholas replies, freeing himself from Harry's arms.

"Leaving so soon?" Harry asks, sitting up.

"Don't want to, but I have to. Aunt Camilla will be here at the crack of dawn and I haven't even packed yet," Nicholas replies while getting dressed.

"It's not like you to procrastinate," Harry says, pulling on his pants. Nicholas buttons up his shirt and smiles.

"No, but like I said, between the sex and the witty repartee-"

"Yeah, I got the idea," Harry says, pulling Nicholas into his arms.

"Kiss me good-bye?" Nicholas asks sweetly. Harry does so, kissing Nicholas tenderly. Nicholas smiles up at him. "Mmm. I love you."

He is gone before Harry can make a reply. It is almost like he planned it that way to give Harry time to think about it. The unexpected thoughtfulness makes Harry smile and feel very bad all at once. But something else contributes to that jittery, uneasy feeling that 's stirring in the pit of his stomach.

The day Draco died, he woke Harry up without ceremony, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him hard. "Wake up, Potter. It's going to be a bad day."

"How can you tell?" Harry muttered into his pillow.

"I can always tell. For instance, the day I met you it felt like someone was brewing a potion in my stomach. I had the same feeling the day my mother died. I have the same feeling now," Draco explained. Harry groaned.

"And that's supposed to encourage me to get up?" he asked. Even with his eyes closed, Harry could feel Draco smirking.

"If you are awake when bad things start to happen at least you can mitigate them," the blonde said, yanking the covers off Harry. "For Merlin's sake, Harry. You should always sleep fully clothed. Wouldn't want Voldemort to catch you in your Snitch boxers, would we?"

Several days letter, a large black bird delivers a message to McGonagall. She looks stunned, passes the letter to Hermione, who glances at it briefly and then passes it very hesitantly to Harry. Harry searches Hermione's face, tries to comprehend the emotions written there. She looks- Harry swallows before continuing that thought. She looks like someone died.

He reads the letter. The handwriting is shaky, but elegant.

_Dear Headmistress,_

_It is my sorrow to inform you that Nicholas Hornby will no longer be in attendance at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As you know, he was staying with his aunt Camilla in Romania. It was his father's idea and despite my initial reservations, I acquiesced. Unfortunately, there was a territorial battle; Nicholas, his aunt, and everyone in the disputed territory was either killed or turned._

_I will come to collect Nicholas' school things personally. I would be eternally grateful if you would pass along the following to interested parties: A funeral service will be held at our residence, Rose Hill, this Sunday at noon._

_Anna Lynn Hornby_

It takes many minutes of mute shock before the letter's contents began to sink in. Of course…Romania. There is a war in Romania between the vampires and the werewolves…some sort of territorial quarrel. How could he be so stupid as to forget? How could he just let Nicholas go like that? Harry looks at Hermione, who is fighting back tears. He is oblivious of his own tears building until he feels them slide down his cheeks, hot and bitter. Hermione reaches over and squeezes Harry's hand. He squeezes back, breathes, tries not to sniffle, tries not to sob, tries not to think. He fails at all three.

He rises, leaving the letter on the table. "Excuse me," he mutters. Before he reaches the doorway, he hears McGonagall tap her glass to get everyone's attention. Harry panics, knowing that he won't be able to hear the announcement without breaking down. He hurries through the doors, then breaks into a dead run for his rooms. No sooner does the door shut behind him then do the sobs break upon him like waves.

The knocks on his door grow increasingly impatient. "Jonathan?" Hermione's voice is worried. No answer is forthcoming. She pounds on the door again. She huffs her disapproval of such theatrics. "Jonathan H. J. P. S. Scryer! If I have to break down this door, you will be an extremely dead young…man." She trails off as the door swings open.

"Wow. You look awful," she says, taking in her best friend's disheveled hair, pale face, and red eyes.

"Nice to see you too, deary," Harry grumbles.

"I didn't say you don't still look perfectly shaggable, but you look like the very thought of shagging would kill you," she replies matter-of-factly.

"I don't look that bad, do I?" he asks, stepping aside to let her in. She plops down in an armchair by the fire.

"No, just like Death warmed over with allergies." Harry blinks. "That was a joke," Hermione clarifies.

"I know. I was just trying to picture Death complaining about pollen."

"How'd that work out?"

"Not very well," Harry admits. Hermione does not smile.

"Are you okay?" she asks. She knows what the boy meant to Harry, has done her best to make everyone else look the other way.

"Do I look okay?" Harry replies sharply, taking the seat across from her. Hermione cringes.

"No," she answers.

"Well, then no, I am not fucking okay." Hermione is silent. Harry buries his face in his hands, sighs. "Oh, God. I should never have let him go. But then why am I talking about God? God's got his phone off the hook. He hasn't answered me in ages."

"How were you going to stop Nicholas?" she asks quietly. There is a trace of bitterness in Harry's eyes. She is unused to it.

"I had him in my arms. I should've-I should've done something." A hand rests upon his arm. He looks up into Hermione's eyes, soft and warm.

"It is not your responsibility to save everyone," she says. Harry laughs and it is hard and bitter, containing the darkness he tries so hard to hide.

"It was. It was my responsibility to save everyone and I couldn't save Draco. I couldn't even save you and Ron on my own. Now I couldn't save Nicholas. What good is it, Hermione? What good is any of it if everyone I care for dies?" It is a question no one can possibly answer.

"Did you know that we slept together? H'm?"

"Ssshh," Hermione says, stroking Harry's hair.

"He was my first. He was so soft, so beautiful and so damned snarky. He could've been born a Malfoy."

"Harry," she says. She is beginning to get alarmed. There is an edge to Harry's voice she doesn't like. Harry fights back a sob.

"Did you know that he loved me?" Harry's eyes are wide. "He loved me. He told me so right before he left. And I thought that I didn't love him. I thought that I adored him and wanted him and would have died protecting him, but I would have died to protect anyone. I never thought I loved him." Hermione is certain that Harry is hysterical by now. He hold her hands firmly, one knee on the ground as he talks, not really talking to her, barely even aware that she is in the room.

"But I did love him. I must've loved him. Otherwise it wouldn't hurt so much now that he's gone, would it? How is it that you can't tell when love is there, but you recognize it immediately by its absence? I loved him, Hermione! I loved him and I didn't get the chance to tell him and now he's dead and he'll never know. He'll never…" At this point Harry breaks off and goes back to crying. Harry is not a pretty crier. His face turns red as tears course down his cheeks and his chest heaves and the sounds that escape his throat are sounds no human should ever make. Hermione is bewildered. She has never seen him cry like this, but that is because she never saw Harry cry over Draco. She didn't see the tears he shed before wrapping the body in a shroud and delivering it to Lucius personally.

She doesn't know what to say to comfort Harry, so she settles for saying what is practical and obvious. "The funeral starts in a few hours, Harry. Let's get you dressed."

* * *

Nothing to say for myself... except I'm late! Reveiw!

Love,

J. Silver


	9. Fancy Meeting You Here

A/N: Let's continue, shall we?

Thank you's for Bibayb, Purple Raveness, LitCandle, Adele Sparks (Yes, actually this story was inspired by a host of U2 songs), StarryGazer, and CurleyGreen (Harry has growth to do in this story. Sometimes growth hurts. And Harry's not cold; he's just a bit bitter and tired.)

* * *

Harry briefly wonders what it is that makes rich wizards feel obliged to have funerals in their homes. Rose Hill is a grand home in the tradition of Malfoy Manor, only decidedly less frigid. Mrs. Hornby is a willowy blond woman, who looks awfully familiar. She recognizes Harry immediately. "Professor Scryer," she begins, grasping Harry's hand firmly. "I'm so grateful that you could make it."

"My sincere condolences for your loss, Mrs. Hornby." She smiles a watery, yet kind smile.

"The loss is not mine alone, Professor. Call me Anna." She takes the roses Harry broughtred ones for Nicholas. "Shall we?" Harry nods, offering her his arm.

"If I may ask, where is Mr. Hornby?" Anna sighs.

"My husband blames himself. Camilla was his sister. She wanted to see Nicholas so badly. He was always her favorite nephew." Harry is silent as he follows Nicholas' mother through her home. It is spacious and, at the same time, warm and inviting. She pauses at a staircase. She pats Harry's arm.

"Nicholas was very fond of you, Professor." He can hear the tears in her voice. His wishes he could console her somehow, but he is feeling beyond consolation.

"Jonathan. Please, call me Jonathan. I- I loved your son."

It is an offering, the only way he can think of to let her know that he also feels a cutting sense of loss. He feels somewhat liberated from the telling. It wasn't such a dark, terrible secret, was it—the love he felt for the boy? Anna lowers her eyes and for a moment Harry is afraid that he did something horribly wrong. She sighs heavily and looks up at Harry. "Would you like to see his room?" she asks. Harry can barely believe his ears, but he is nodding anyway

Anna leads up the staircase and down the right wing of the house. She pauses at the second door on the right. Her hand trembles as she reaches for the door handle. She pushes the door open swiftly and gestures Harry inside the room. She stays in the doorway, looking anywhere but inside.

Nicholas' room is like the rest of Rose Hill- large, but inviting. It isn't so much a room as it is a series of rooms. Harry stands in the middle of what must be the study. It contains a desk, several chairs, and an impressive collection of texts. Many of the books are about Divination. Apparently it had been a special interest of Nicholas' long before Harry met him. Harry runs his finger along the titles of the books, wondering if Nicholas had any idea how short his life would be.

A book without a title catches his eye. He pulls it off the shelf gently, looking down at the floor curiously when something falls at his feet. It is a box. A small black box. Suppressing a shudder at the memory of small black boxes, Harry opens it.

And gasps.

Inside the box is a card. It reads "To J.S.S. with love- N.H." Harry blinks back tears. Underneath the card is a ring. A silver ring set with stones the color of Nicholas' eyes. Harry recognizes it as the ring Nicholas used to wear before he came home from winter holidays without it. The ring Nicholas never took off. The ring Nicholas loved dearly. The ring that, when questioned about its disappearance, he had shrugged and said that it had been put to better use.

Harry cries for what feels like forever. It gives him a headache to cry this waythe way he always cries, as if the weight of the world has cracked open his ribcage and his soul is pouring out. He leans against the wall for the support, crying at first for Nicholas, for Nicholas' future, for Nicholas' family, and, finally, for himself.

Hermione and Ron meet Harry at the entrance to the chapel. The three exchange glances. Harry nods and goes in alone. He can see the coffin from the entryway and suddenly he has the overwhelming urge to turn around, but Anna has taken his arm again and she is leading him up the aisle. He panics, wants to dig his heels in and not get any closer because he doesn't think he's ready for this. No, fuck that. He knows he's not ready for this and while inside he's struggling wildly, outside his face is pale but composed and he makes no efforts to stop Anna.

They reach the coffin. Anna starts to cry. It occurs to Harry that this is Anna's first time seeing her son since he died. A blond young man, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Nicholas, takes her away from Harry, enfolding her in his arms. Harry has no one to hold his hand.

But he is not alone.

Also at the coffin is another blonde. Harry kneels beside him. The rustle of garments catches the blonde's attention and he turns to look at Harry.

Harry stifles a gasp.

The blonde at the coffin is Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius eyes narrow. "Have we met?" he asks. His voice is low, worn, but still commanding. It makes Harry shiver.

"No, we haven't. I'm Jonathan Scryer. I was Nicholas' teacher," Harry says, reluctantly offering Lucius his hand.

"Lucius Malfoy. Nicholas was my nephew." Lucius takes Harry's hand. As he does, Harry feels a tingling sensation in his fingers. Lucius eyes light up. Harry frees his hand with as much grace as he can muster.

"Were you related to Camilla, then?" Harry asks politely.

"Anna is my wife's sister."

Harry blinks. He should have seen that coming somehow. It doesn't take long for him to work his way around the family tree. Nicholas was Draco's first cousin. "Well, that makes things nice and twisted. Let's keep it in the family, shall we?" Harry thinks to himself, wondering if he is forever doomed to fall for Malfoys and their relatives. He pushes it out of his mind, bends over the coffin, and places a kiss on Nicholas' lips. Lucius raises an eyebrow. "Teacher?" he echoes. Harry smiles sadly, kisses Nicholas again.

"And then some, " Harry admits. Lucius smiles back.

Harry has to admit that stripped of the big bad dark wizard vibes, and cloaked instead in quiet sadness, Lucius is beautiful. Perhaps he was always beautiful and that's why he has always been so terrifying. Most people are inclined to find beauty comforting, but when you remove the comfort and replace it with something hard and remorseless, they are reminded of the harshness of the universe. Where is everything that makes the universe good if it cannot be found in beauty? Where is the hope and where is the faith and the love? Not in Lucius' face. He had a beauty that was terrifying because it let slip the secret of the universe's utter indifference.

"You are staring at me," Lucius says, not taking his eyes off the form of his nephew. Harry knows that as Lucius looks upon Nicholas, he is thinking of Draco. He wishes he could tell Lucius that he was thinking of Draco as well, but that would be a giveaway and Harry still has 14 months to evade Lucius until he is free. Harry blinks. He looks around for a moment before realizing that Lucius was addressing him.

"You are very striking," Harry replies honestly, knowing that he would never admit it if he thought there was even a chance of Lucius recognizing him. He is counting on his altered appearance and Lucius' grief to hide him. "I apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable." His apology is sincere, gracious.

"I am at the funeral of my last heir. I assure you I am already uncomfortable," Lucius replies. Harry almost smiles, but the tone of Lucius' voice stops him. It has a dreamlike quality, as if he cannot believe this is happening to him again. Harry knows the feeling.

"Nicholas doesn't have any siblings?"

"Oh, he has severalthree brothers, two sisters."

"Oh dear God," Harry remarks, suddenly feeling light-headed.

"But none of them were so much like my son and myself." Silence as Lucius thought of Draco.

"I can see why Nicholas chose you," he says at length, turning his head a little to inspect Harry. Harry is once again caught off guard.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nicholas, if nothing else, had excellent taste. That he even went in pursuit of you is a great compliment. We settle for nothing less than the best." The strangeness of this situation hits Harry full force. He laughs quietly, hoping Lucius won't be angry, but the older wizard looks only bemused.

"I'm sorry," Harry says. "It is just that you are Lucius Malfoythe stuff of nightmares. Yet, here you are being perfectly civil to a complete stranger. Why are you being so nice to me?" It then occurs to Harry that what he just said must sound completely stupid. He buries his face in his hands. "I can't believe I just said that, " he mutters. There is a hand on his arm and the tingles are starting up again. With much dread, Harry raises his eyes to meet Lucius. Lucius laughs. Harry's jaw hits the floor. By the time he picks it up, Lucius has stopped laughing and is eyeing him curiously.

"I think the time of nightmares is over," he says. "Besides, I like the look of you. You remind me of someone I might have known once."

"Might have? You're not sure?" Harry teases. Lucius smiles a little.

"That's the funny thing about potentials and possibilities: you're never quite sure."

Harry is reminded of Draco and for a moment he misses the Slytherin boy intensely. It surprises him, the depth of that feeling. Harry supposes that it would be impossible for two people to work and train together at the levels he and Draco did if they hadn't bonded in some sense. Up until the very end, they called each other by their last names, though to their credit it may be said that there was much less hostility in the pronunciation.

"Nicholas' brother Sebastian is about to go on the Tour," Lucius begins, gesturing to the young man who had taken Anna from Harry. Harry nods, recollecting "the Tour" from the time Draco had tried in vain to impress upper crust wizarding culture on Harry. Lucius lowers his voice. "He is a very nice young man- very upstanding, very trusting, very delicate.He is in need of a chaperone, but not a stuffy, imposing one who will take the joy out of the trip."

"In other words, not you?" Harry replies wryly. He receives a very chilling glare.

"You are the age my son would have been. Don't think I won't discipline you." The severity of the glare is mitigated by the smile playing at the corner of Lucius' mouth.

"You promise?" Harry says, using the "bedroomy" voice before it occurs to him that it is very bad form to flirt with someone at a funeral. And what the hell was he doing flirting with Lucius Malfoy anyway? Lucius raises an eyebrow.

"Anyway, to stop using subtlety on those lacking the capacity to understand it-" Lucius continues, choosing to ignore Harry's comment.

"Hey!"

"I would feel much better about sending Sebastian out into the world if someone like yourself would accompany him."

"You'd feel better entrusting your nephew to a teacher who was having an affair with said nephew's younger brother?" Harry asks incredulously. That isn't exactly what he would call a glowing recommendation.

"Mr. Scryer, I'm in mourning. Don't make me break it by looking imposing."

More humor from a man Harry used to think was incapable of laughing at something that didn't cause someone pain. It must be grief. Harry knows that grief does strange things to people. He has firsthand experinece. He is flirting with the man when, at any other time, he would have vanished by now.

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy, but I cannot leave my position at Hogwarts."

"Of course. What was I thinking?" Lucius says with a smirk. Harry suppresses a cringe. He hates that smirk. Draco used to do it all the time. It usually took the place of a "I told you so", a "take that", or an "oh, you think so?"

"Well Sebastian won't be leaving for several months. In the event that you change your mind, here is my card. Toss it into the fire and it will floo you to my office." Harry takes the card- white linen with the Malfoy crest emblazoned in silver.

"Any time restrictions?"

"No."

"So I can just floo into your office at two in the morning?" Harry asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Certainly," Lucius says pleasantly. "But you might have to wait a few hours."

Harry rises to his feet. He is bewildered when everyone starts to move. "What happened?" he asks, furrowing his brow. Lucius rises as well.

"Nothing. We just talked through the period of respectful silence held in tearful memory of the dead. Nicholas used to do it all the time. Have you never been to a wizard funeral?" Harry shudders.

"Too many. I'm never in any shape to remember the format afterward," he replies. Lucius nods once in understanding.

"Next there is the funereal feast, to which you will be my escort. Yes, I realize that I am an awful man to be picking you up while you are vulnerable and hurting, but you are smiling and I am smiling, and so I feel that my horrible misconduct is justified."

Harry just doesn't know how to reply to that, so he does the only thing he can do. He takes the arm Lucius offers him and lets himself be led out of the room.

* * *

It appears that Harry cannot escape Lucius that easily... or can he? Comments, criticisms, and suggestions eaten with a spoon. Review!

Love,

J. Silver


	10. Stay

A/N: You lucky, lucky people! This whole chapter is full of Harry-Lucius interaction. It's one of my favorites.

Thank you:

Neinna Celebrindal, Wolflady, alliekatgal (Lucius nice? I rather think that Lucius takes care of his own, nice or not), tinkita, Spear and Magic Helmet, Purple Raveness, Adele Sparks (Good name for Harry's tempter, no? You're the only one who seems to have picked up on it. Cheers!), Sky ( I love Nicholas. Breaks my heart to see him go, but he has performed an invaluable service for Harry.), vote-Larry4prez, Shawnsgoddess, StarryGazer ( Graceless? Fluffy? Oh no! I think an integral part of Lucius' charm is his grace.), Laimerkain ( I never stopped writing this fic. I was just really stumped on chapter 13. It's coming along though.), and cocopops.

* * *

It is half-past two in the morning, three weeks after Nicholas' funeral. Harry should be asleep. Harry should have eaten dinner. Instead Harry had graded papers meticulously and Harry had visited Hagrid and Harry had taken a long walk, which ended when he discovered that he was either going straight into the Forbidden Forest or straight into the lake. His feet seemed to know no other paths and he couldn't honestly say that he objected to either one, but Hermione and Ron wouldn't appreciate having Harry's funeral upon the heels of Nicholas'. It is out of consideration for them that he returns to the castle. Back in his room and faced with the conclusion that life at Hogwarts is impossible to continue as normal, Harry has one choice left.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out Lucius' card. The card is showing signs of wear. The corners are rounded. The upper left corner is dog-eared. The body of the card is curved from the folding of Harry's pants as he sits or walks. Harry fingers it, biting his lips. Taking a deep breath, he throws the card into the fire.

He steps into Lucius' office to come face-to-face with the man himselfin silk pajamas no less. "I thought you said I'd have to wait a few hours," Harry teases.

"I was not expecting you," Lucius replies with a wry smile. Harry raises an eyebrow.

"So if you had been expecting me, you would have made me wait?" Lucius looks down at his pajamas ruefully.

"I would have been better dressed." Harry surveys Lucius, stroking his chin as if he was in deep thought.

"I like the way you're dressed." he says after a moment.

"Thank you, but what the devil are you wearing and why does it have so many zippers?" Lucius asks, frowning in the general direction of Harry's favorite shirt. Harry sticks out his tongue. "Don't show me that unless you're going to use it," Luciuis warns. Harry blinks.

_"My father is the type of animal that circles its prey just long enough to catch the scent and then strikes without warning," Draco said, his face grave and thoughtful._

_"Animal? Why do you call your father an animal?"_

_"My father lacks indecision and doubt and I don't care what any scientist tells you. It is indecision and doubt that separate us from the animals. Does the wolf doubt its ability to catch its prey? Does the hunted animal have to ponder whether or not it will run? No. My father is sure and he is swift and that's what makes him deadly."_

_"And where do you stand?" Harry asked._

_"I am definitely human." Draco chuckled and looked up at Harry, almost shyly._

_"Doubt?" Harry guessed. Draco nodded._

_"It's my middle name." _

_Harry glanced at the blond boy beside him. He wanted to say something, something reassuring, but Draco didn't take well to reassuring just as Draco didn't take well to gratitude, pity, or sympathy. Harry decided that Draco worked too hard for everything and then ignored the reward. Yes, Harry was definitely feeling ignored. He blushes when he realized what he just thought. Had Draco finally won him over?_

_Harry was still blushing when his eyes met Draco's. Draco, being Draco and having a knack for knowing exactly what Harry was thinking or feeling when it was least convenient for Harry, smiled a little._

In the semidarkness of the study, Harry sees Draco in Lucius' face and wraps his arms around himself. "It's a shirt," he replies softly. Lucius moves closer.

"I don't believe it." He fingers one of the zipper pulls idly. Harry tenses, turns his head away slightly.

"My students believe it." Lucius chuckles.

"You teach students in that? Professor Scryer, you look like you belong in a cage in a nightclub, not in front of a blackboard." Harry tries to ignore the very unpleasant sensation of his blood running cold. He faces Lucius.

"Behind a crystal ball, actually. I teach Divination." He swats Lucius' hand away from his zippers.

"Mmm." Lucius' hand goes right back to tease the zippers on Harry's shirt. "How well can you see the future?"

"Right now, I see me leaving and never coming back here," Harry replies, putting as much indignance as he can muster into his voice. Lucius raises an eyebrow.

"Are you sure that you're qualified to teach? I've never met a seer who was so off." Harry raises his eyebrow in answer.

"You think you can do better?"

Lucius takes his hand away abruptly. Harry relaxes instantly. Lucius sinks into an armchair in front of the fire. He gestures to a chair nearby. Harry sits down, wondering what he's gotten himself into.

"You've come because you can't eat, you can't sleep, you can't function at Hogwarts anymore. You're here to talk to me about Sebastian's Tour. You'll be back if we can't decide everything tonight. While you're here, we'll share a few drinks and one night we will end up in bed," Lucius says nonchalantly. Harry is unamused.

"Yes, yes, yes. Yes, yes. I don't like to drink and no."

Lucius takes a sip from a glass at his elbow. He looks thoughtful and doesn't reply for a moment.

"Not if I was the last blonde on earth?"

"Not even then," Harry says, wondering if his infatuation with blondes was that obvious or if Lucius just took it for granted that blondes had universal appeal.

"Pity," Lucius replies, draining his glass. It refills itself.

"That's a neat trick," Harry remarks, shifting in his chair.

"It convenient when you're trying to drink yourself to death. There's no need to get up."

If anyone else had said it, Harry would have laughed, but for now he just sits there trying to figure out how serious Lucius was. Lucius puts the glass down. "When," he whispers to the glass. The glass drains itself.

"You don't plan on dying today?" Harry asks coldly. Lucius laughs to himself.

"Drinking oneself to death is a long, painful process. I am not quite done with living. I have a few reasons left."

"Oh?" Harry asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, planning Sebastian's tour is a good one."

"Any other reasons?" Lucius looks up. He traces the rim of his glass with his forefinger.

"No, now that I think about it. That's the only one."

"The only one?" Harry echoes. He finds it hard to believe that the only reason this once great and terrible man has for living is a social event.

"I had hoped..." Lucius voice trails off as he stares into the fire.

"You had hoped?" Harry prompts. Lucius shakes himself out of his reverie.

"I had hoped to make a new start." The sadness that Harry glimpsed at Nicholas' funeral takes Lucius over again. Harry is embarrassed to see him this way. It is a feeling like he has walked in on Lucius in the shower, like he is witnessing something he has no right to see.

He shifts, aware of Lucius' eyes on him. "I need another drink," Lucius announces to no one in particular. His glass fills itself. Lucius knocks it back in one shot. The expression on his face doesn't change. He doesn't even wince. The glass refills itself. Lucius drains it again. Before he is aware of what he is doing, Harry has crossed the room and knocked the glass out of Lucius' hand. It spills. And refills itself. And spills.

Harry and Lucius lock gazes. For a long time the only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the sound of brandy spilling as the glass empties and refills itself eternally. Without breaking eye contact, Harry smashes the glass with his heel. The only sound left is the fire.

"I can fix that, you know," Lucius says quietly. There is no mockery. He is merely stating a fact.

"You'll have to wait until after I leave. I won't watch you drink yourself to death right in front of me," Harry replies, his voice shaking. Lucius shakes his head.

"I wasn't trying to drink myself to death." He steeples his fingers, rests his chin on his thumbs, still gazing at Harry.

"Oh yeah? That's what it looked like to me!" Harry cannot explain why he is angry. He only knows that watching Lucius in his current state and exchanging small talk has filled him with a terrible sense of waste, something akin to despair.

"That's because you don't drink. I was just trying to blur the edges a bit." The cold edge Harry is familiar with is beginning to return to Lucius' voice.

"Why?" Harry asks, his anger fading as something like relief trickles into his system.

"Because," Lucius replies sharply.

"Because what?" Harry's gaze is hard when he meets Lucius' eyes. Another moment of silence. Lucius sighs, slumps back into his chair.

"Because you look just like him," he says wearily.

Harry freezes in momentary horror. Then he reminds himself that Lucius has a fair amount of alcohol in his system, and if he wanted it badly enough, a coat stand would remind him of Harry. "The hair, the eyes, your face...it's uncanny really...the resemblance, but everything is uncanny with enough alcohol. Sobrietus," Lucius muttered. With that, he stood up, straightening imaginary wrinkles in his pajamas. "I apologize for my conduct, Mr. Scryer. Perhaps you had better leave."

"No!"

The word surprises Harry. He hadn't meant to say it. Lucius looks at him curiously, one eyebrow raised. Harry looks at the floor, at the shards of glass beneath his heel. He doesn't know that he looks lost, like a scared runaway dressed tough to hide the fact that he's more vulnerable than ever. He feels lost, feels like he's drowning in grief and he has one chance to escape it and he knows somehow that if he leaves now, he loses that chance. "I- I can't sleep at Hogwarts. The bed-"

"Reminds you of Nicholas?" Lucius finishes. Harry nods, biting his lip. "Follow me."

Lucius leads Harry out of the study and three doors to the left. The bedroom is one Harry hasn't seen before. It is huge, like everything else in the Manor. It is stately and very warm. Lucius hands Harry a set of pajamas, interrupting him mid-gawk. "You can wear these. I daresay all those zippers would be uncomfortable to sleep in." Harry turns just in time to catch Lucius' smirk. Lucius heads toward the door. Harry turns back around and pulls his shirt over his head and starts to unfasten his pants.

Then he remembers that he never heard the door close.

He spins around to find Lucius in the doorway, arms crossed, looking calmly at him. "I was going to ask you if you needed anything else," Lucius explains. Harry blushes.

"I-er, no, thank you. What is this?" he asks, gesturing to the room.

"This is my room," Lucius says simply. His eyes look briefly around the room. Harry's eyes widen.

"Oh. And where will you sleep?" Lucius snorts.

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't sleep anymore." Harry blinks. Lucius moves to close the door. More only chances. Or maybe it's not his only chance, but certainly his best chance to get over his fear of Lucius the man and not Lucius the Death Eater.

"Stay."

The world stops spinning for a moment. Harry witnesses the change in acceleration with a lurch in his stomach. Lucius, for his part, merely sways a little. He turns and takes a step. Harry doesn't remember the other steps, but they're unimportant because Lucius is standing right in front of him. His fingers brush Harry's hair and he looks wistful for a moment.

"Whatever for?"

"Because I want you to," Harry says, turning his face into Lucius' palm. Lucius brings him close. He inhales Harry's scent, eyes closing as an expression of pain flits across his face.

"You only want me because I look like him," Lucius sighs.

"You want me because I look like him," Harry murmurs.

"So that makes this okay?" Lucius' free hand strokes the back of Harry's upper arm.

He kisses Harry.

Not as Harry would have expected to be kissed. Lucius presses his lips to Harry's forehead. The most chaste of kisses.

And Harry was holding his breath for it.

"I will be noble." Lucius steps back from Harry and grins. "Just this once." He looks at Harry one last time. "Good night, Mr. Scryer."

* * *

Damn! They were so close! Oh, well.It's not over yet. Review!

Love,

J. Silver


	11. The Morning After

A/N: Repost! I just altered the first bit a little. Just so you're not confused, there isn't really anything to get about it. It's just a flashback.

Thank you's aplenty to CannonFodder, Emerald-silver Serpent, B Madden, Ura-hd, NeedlePoint, Avain, chocytwo, Arigazi (thank you for your honesty. i tend to have rather weak beginnings.), Tinkita, Dreamerswaking, borne-shadow-childe (no, Harry has about 13 months left.), dmweasley, RoschLupin-Black, coriander (Was that a cliffhanger? I just try to end at a point that will make it easy to start the next chapter.), StarryGazer, alliekatgal, Silver Star, Saavik13, vote-larry4prez, ShatteredxDream, Nienna Celebrindal, Wolflady, and Purple Raveness.

* * *

"_Potter, you have less than half a second to remove your hand from my arse before you lose it," Draco warned. Harry's eyes snapped open to meet Draco's grey ones. "Wha—" Then he realized that they were in bed and his hand was indeed on Draco's arse. _

_Harry jumped back as if he had been bitten._

"_Why are we in the same bed?" he asked. Draco rolled his eyes._

"_Don't ever get a girlfriend, Potter. You'll only cause her one disappointment after another." Harry looked at Draco blankly. Draco gaped at him in disbelief before looking away with something like hurt on his face._

_"God, you really don't remember? But you saidHow could you forget all those whispered promises and last night's mind-blowing sex? It was the best night of my life."_

_Harry's only response was to continue to stare and turn a rather interesting shade of green. He blinked at Malfoy, who bit his lip and twisted the sheet in his fingers, refusing to meet Harry's eyes. "Last night's what? Ma—Dra—Malfoy, what the?" Harry shut his eyes. He was going to be sick. He just knew it. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes to see the blonde's shoulders shaking. _Oh, shit_, Harry thought_. I didn't make Malfoy cry. I didn't make Malfoy cry. _Harry was so busy panicking that it took him a moment to realize that Draco was far from sobbing and was, in fact, laughing at him. _

_Draco grinned._

"_I'm just kidding you, Potter. You're so dense that I couldn't help myself."_

_Harry continued to feel sick._

" _Don't you dare turn that shade of green on me! If you faint, I'll hex you, I swear. What's so wrong with the idea anyway? I mean, I'd have to be pissed out of my mind and hard up to sleep with you, but you should be so lucky as to have a go with me," Draco said, going from nearly concerned to indignant to hurt to coolly superior in less than 10 seconds. Harry put his fingers to his temples, just barely able to process the storm of Draco's mood swings._

"_Shut up, Malfoy." _

"_Ever the charmer, I see," Draco replied, smiling wryly. Harry glared at him._

"_Why are we in the same bed?" he repeated, ignoring the urge to wring Draco's neck and focusing instead on the fact that they had not slept together. _Deep breaths, deep breaths,_ Harry repeated to himself. Draco huffed. _

"_Because we made the call to set up camp here, and it was either bunk with you or that maggot Creevy." Draco wrinkled his nose at the idea of Creevy sharing the same oxygen as him, let alone the same bed. Harry didn't bother to ask which Creevy Draco was referring to. Draco disdained both equally. Harry shook his head. _

"_So you chose me?" he asked, amused._

"_Let's put it this way: I wouldn't piss on that Creevy kid if he were on fire." _

_Harry chuckled, not doubting Draco for an instant. "And me?" he asked, honestly curious as to how he ranked on Draco's scale of horrible things. Draco smiled demurely and batted his eyes._

"_Well, I'd piss on you even if you weren't on fire," he replied with mock-coyness. _

"_Darling, I never knew you cared," Harry said, drawing closer to Draco._

"_Potter, if you come any closer, you will get your family jewels handed to you," the blonde boy threatened._

"_Scared?" Harry asked with a grin._

"_Of your morning breath? Absolutely," Draco replied deadpan. _

_Harry kissed Draco out of spite. Hard._

_Draco introduced his knee to Harry's crotch. Hard. He then left the Boy Who Lived curled in the fetal position while he went to shower._

Harry opens his eyes, half expecting to see blond hair. Whether he was expecting Lucius, Draco, or Nicholas, he doesn't know. He is dimly aware that it is Saturday. He is marginally pleased that he doesn't have to go back to Hogwarts right away. He had spent a blissfully uneventful night in Lucius' bed, and while he doesn't burst into song, he feels better than he has in a several weeks. He glances around the room to reacquaint himself with his surroundings. He locates a bathroom, a shrouded picture above the fireplace and a neatly folded set of clothes waiting beside Harry's own clothes.

He pads across the room. The stone floors are warm beneath his feet, but it is rare that his feet fall upon stone because the carpets are so profuse. Harry is reminded of what it means to be a rich wizard and in turn reminds himself that he is a rich wizard and thus quenches the small feeling of envy growing inside.

He recognizes the clothes laid out for him as once belonging to Draco. He doesn't remember this particular sweater and these jeans, but their shape is familiar and his throat closes up momentarily. The clothes are gently folded, the edges are round and not crisp and there is an indent where a hand patted the clothes before leaving them. Lucius brought him these, not a house elf. Harry takes it as a good sign and tries to contain his growing nervousness.

He showers and dresses quickly, running a comb through his damp hair before going to find his host. He checks the dining room first and finds Lucius at breakfast, reading a copy of the Daily Prophet. He looks wonderfully and regally bored and is dressed in his standard imposing wizard garb. Harry wonders if Lucius will be particularly cold today to make up for exposing himself the previous night.

Harry stabs at his eggs with no real intention of eating them. He makes a big show of tasting them, seasoning them with salt and pepper and drowning them in inordinate amounts of ketchup. Lucius eyes the resultant mess over the top of the newspaper.

"Now that you've made quite a mess, I hope you plan on eating those eggs," Lucius says.

"It's not a mess; it's art!" Harry replies. Lucius puts the paper down. It seems to fold itself magically. It is a possibility, but Harry prefers to attribute it to Lucius' uncanny graces. Harry's "art" is subjected to the type of scrutinizing glance any critic in the world would envy.

"Art?" Lucius says. "What kind of art is that?"

"It's self-expression through abstraction," Harry says, squinting at his plate. Lucius snorts.

"Are you dying to express your inner chicken, Mr. Scryer?" he asks.

"No. This is an expression of my anxieties regarding last night." Lucius eyes the eggs again thoughtfully. His eyes widen in momentary shock.

"Damn it! You made me think about it! It is art." Harry laughs. Lucius looks at him sternly. "And it better be edible art as well." Chastised, Harry ate half of his art. The rest he stuck to the plate with a whispered permanent sticking charm, wanting to preserve his first work for posterity.

"So," Harry began, gulping down some very black coffee. "I was wondering if you were going to give me the cold shoulder this morning." Harry finds that it's easier to be flippant with Lucius; it makes the jitters in his stomach subside.

"That thought hadn't occurred to me," Lucius replies, taking a sip of his own coffee. He doesn't smile, but his tone is light and Harry feels encouraged.

"Well, what thought did occur to you?"

"I thought we would discuss tour plans, perhaps have dinner with Sebastian, and then I shall see you back to Hogwarts."

"Dinner with Sebastian on such short notice?" Harry asks incredulously. Draco had told him once that a proper dinner request should be made 72 hours in advance36 hours at bare minimum. Harry had found this humorous since he was lucky if Draco gave him 36 minutes advance notice before hauling him off to the manor. Maybe Draco had been worried that if he gave Harry more time, Harry would've wormed out of it. Lucius smiles.

"Sebastian is a good nephew. He will drop everything to spare a moment for his uncle."

"Such devotion. Was Sebastian a Hufflepuff?" Harry teases.

"No. Sebastian never went to Hogwarts." Harry raised an eyebrow. "That's why it is crucial that this tour be a success," Lucius explains, looking at Harry to see if he caught Lucius' meaning.

Harry figured that he caught all of them: I'm placing my trust in you; I'm depending on you; I will be eternally grateful if you make this work for me; I will hunt you down like a dog and kill you if you fail and that would be a shame because I like you. Harry nods solemnly and it seems that Lucius' smile becomes a little wider.

"Naturally, I will be needing a resume and several recommendations. I assume that Hogwarts has done a full background check for any sort of criminal activity," he says with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

"Naturally," Harry replies without skipping a beat, though he wonders how on earth he's going to get recommendations and how he's going to fabricate a resume. He squashes the panicky feeling and saves it for later.

"Fantastic. For your convenience, you won't be leaving until after term has ended. That should give Hogwarts ample time to find a replacement. "

It occurs to Harry that Lucius has already decided everything. All Lucius is doing now is getting Harry adjusted to the idea of leaving. Harry has to give Lucius credit. The man is clever. Used upon someone, who was not used to dealing with Lucius, this technique would have caused anxiety and fear at first, then relief and gratitude when they were allowed to assume the job Lucius had already decided they would have.

"Very clever," Harry says at loud. Lucius takes another sip of coffee.

"What is? I assume that you're not referring to your time of departure? That's not clever; it is convenient at the least and courteous at best." Harry chuckles and then smiles. He likes to chuckle in this form, likes to hear the low, velvet rumble and feel it in his throat. There are times when he is still in awe of his voice.

"The resume and the recommendations. Letting me think that I still have a say in all this and that it's still uncertain." Lucius blinks.

"Why, Mr. Scryer, you surprise me."

"Do I? It's true. You've already decided that I'm going to take this job. You wouldn't have offered it to me if you had thought I might have refused."

"I repeat, you surprise me. Most people never catch on to that particular trick." Lucius raises an eyebrow at Harry's questioning look.

Harry cannot help it. He tries to stifle it at first, but that gives way to full-fledged laughter.

"You are evil," he says to Lucius, who is indulgently not glaring at him. Lucius picks up his paper again.

"Actually, I'm retired." Harry starts, barely avoiding a lapful of hot coffee.

"What?" he sputters.

"Yes, it turns out that they're right. Evil really doesn't pay. The hours and benefits are lousy. I have much more flexibility now that I'm indifferent," Lucius replies deadpan, turning a page. For a long time Harry is too stunned to say anything. The trouble with Lucius is that Harry never knows when to take him seriously.

* * *

A bit of a breather after all the intense drama of the past few chapters. Comments and criticism are equally welcome, so review!

Luv ya,

J. Silver


	12. Baroque Death Metal? You're kidding

A/N: After this point, there is no more chapter overlap, so the posts might become more infrequent. This chapter is weird for me. I tired to do without the song, but the chapter loses a lot of impact that way. Suggestions on how to improve would be appreciated.

Thanks bunches to all who reveiwed!

Ura-hd: There will be more Harry and Draco bits later, but you're right about Harry being attracted to him. But did Harry know that?

borne-shadow-childe: I don't think that an evil henchmen gets many perks. It's definitely better to be the mastermind.

StarryGazer:Hehe. Lucius is my darling. I love his character so.

Arigazi: Glad you liked it.

LillyEmerald: Yay! You've said exactly what I've been hoping to hear.

vote-larry4prez: I don't mind if you use it, just give credit where credit is due, k?

RavenEcho: If you were confused, it's my fault. I apologize.

CannonFodder: I think we have a ways to go yet, so it's important to have some lightness in with all this serious stuff. glad you enjoyed it.

* * *

The opening chords of the violin erupt across the backdrop of Harry's mind, warning him that his soul is in danger. He fidgets in his chair next to Lucius. They are seated in a box just to the left of the stage in an old Edwardian theater. The floor seats have been removed—a necessity, since the theater is packed with an astonishing amount of young people in clothes that resembled Harry's zippered shirt. The violin preys on his mind—shrill and relentless. He closes his eyes. A drumbeat begins. An electric guitar joins in. There is a flood of light against his eyelids. The stage lights have been lit. A voice sings. 

_It's been 3 days 6 hours 10 minutes_

_Since you left me._

_You think it's over._

_You think you've won._

_I know something that you don't:_

_It's only just begun._

It is the most beautiful voice he has ever heard. It is rich, sweet, full of pain and foreboding. He opens his eyes. The singer is a pouty, petite blonde in a little girl's frock that looks positively and deliciously indecent in sky blue velvet. She smiles evilly. The music changes, becomes faster. She grips the microphone in her kid-covered hands and sings again:

_Go ahead and run._

_Go ahead and hide._

_You think that I won't find you?_

_Stop believing your own lies._

The words come out with a surprising amount of bitterness, the singer's china doll face changing little. It is shocking to hear such darkness come out of that rosebud mouth. Lucius leans over and closes Harry's mouth with a small gesture of his hand. Harry hadn't realized he was gaping. The blonde angel on stage winks at Harry. Her voice embodies need and addiction now and a hand toys with the ruffles of her skirt distractedly.

_I see you. You're so pretty._

_I feel you deep in my veins._

_I'll get you, cross my heart, darling._

Harry is mesmerized by the rising ruffles of her skirts. Her stockings barely meet the edge of her old-fashioned knickers. The small strip of bare skin that appears between the two when she moves bothers him immensely, as do the heels on her molest-me-maryjanes that were never meant for walking. He stops trying to make sense of her, stops trying to separate her voice from her image and the cotton candy sweetness from the darkness and lets her walk all over his mind. Lets her take root in some small corner therein. There, she twists and bends in the winds of his imagination.

_You should know that_

_I'll always find you in the darkness_

_With crystal tears in your eyes._

_I'll always find you in the darkness,_

_Searching for the light._

He is acutely aware of Lucius. Harry can feel the heat of the stare, can feel the amused smirk as if it were pressed up against his skin. He closes his eyes again, finds her there waiting for him. She tastes like bittersweet cherry and he is surprised—not because she tastes like cherry, but because he even cares at all. He tallies his dead—the ones that haunt him, the ones that he cries for in his sleep: his parents, Sirius, Remus, Draco, Nicholas, himself. She is hot against him, reminding him of last night's misadventure, his almost bedding of Lucius Malfoy. She reminds him of nights spent with Nicholas. Her voice hits just the right pitch of need.

But the concert ends and the house lights go on and Harry is marvelously safe and unmolested. He opens his eyes. Lucius taps him on the shoulder. "Come along now," he says, smiling. "There is someone I'd like you to meet."

The dressing rooms are unmarked, but Lucius doesn't hesitate. He knocks on the third door on the right and enters without waiting for an answer. The china doll singer is at her dressing table, inspecting her hair. When she spies Lucius, she rises to embrace him. "You didn't tell me you were bringing company," she says almost shyly, kissing his cheek. Lucius grins over his shoulder. He beckons for Harry to come closer. Harry does, slowly.

"Mr. Scryer, I'd like you to meet my nephew Sebastian," Lucius says. "Sebastian, this is Professor Scryer."

"A pleasure, I'm sure, Professor," Sebastian says, glancing down at the floor. He extends a gloved hand. Harry blinks once in disbelief, but the part of his mind that accepted the singer on stage despite the paradoxes takes over. He takes Sebastian's hand and presses it to his lips.

"I hardly know how to greet such beauty," he says smoothly. Sebastian laughs behind his hand.

"How charming. May I take him home with me, Uncle?"

"No, that pleasure is reserved for me. I came to invite you to dinner with us."

"Shall I change?" Sebastian inquired. Lucius casts an amused glance in Harry's direction before answering.

"Please. I'd prefer it if Mr. Scryer could keep his eyes in his head." Harry waits until Sebastian has turned before sticking his tongue out at Lucius.

"That's twice, Mr. Scryer. Don't let it happen a third time," Lucius warns.

"Would you be so kind as to unzip me, Uncle?" Sebastian asks. Lucius grins at Harry evilly.

"Mr. Scryer, would you mind? I'm suddenly very tired." Resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at Lucius again, Harry forces himself to put his hand on the tab of the zipper and pull. He would like to have it over with, but the fabric keeps shifting and getting caught in the zipper. He goes slowly, each slide exposing more of Sebastian's porcelain skin and deepening the poor boy's blush. Maybe the boy is as sensitive and modest as Lucius said he was. The zipper hits a snag. Harry ventures a bit closer to disentangle it. The smell of cherries hits him hard. He starts, his hand brushing Sebastian's back as he recalls his imaginings in the balcony. Sebastian's breathing hitches and he pulls away from Harry, his eyes a darker shade of blue. He retreats behind a screen to change. Harry plops down in the nearest chair, his head in his hands.

"I hate you," he says to Lucius.

"But you two make such a pretty pair," Lucius replies. Harry chooses not to answer, toying with the lace on a dress that happens to be hanging near his head. It looks familiar. It occurs to Harry that he has seen Sebastian before. The boy comes out from behind the screen fully dressed in slacks, a turtleneck, and a blue velvet frock coat that brushes his knees. He hasn't removed his gloves. He crosses to the dressing table and the only sound is the zinging of the brush through his hair. Without the dress and all his makeup, he is still gorgeous.

"Your band," Harry begins, "was on the cover of _Orpheus_." Sebastian graces him with a smile, laying his hairbrush on the table. It is silver.

"You read _Orpheus_?" He looks politely surprised.

"Not usually, but I confiscate it from a student occasionally. Azkaban, right?" Sebastian nods. His hair falls into his eyes. He sighs and picks up his hairbrush again.

Harry remembers the article fairly well, not that he really has to. The band was in every underground music magazine in the wizard world. Not only because they were fantastic, but because they had just turned down a 2.5 million-galleon record deal with a major label. Harry has read several of their interviews. Beyond their music, Azkaban's greatest attraction is their mystery. No one knows who they are or where they come from. The band is mum on their origins and avoids unwanted questions with superb ease. Sebastian had been dubbed "the Angel of Baroque Death Metal." (That this was even a genre of music had been quite amusing to Harry. Nicholas had once described it as "dark Bach with guitars, a drum and an opera singer with a chip on his shoulder.") He is demure and distant in way that solidifies his status as otherworldly. Untouchable. Unknowable. Just like his band.

"Have you heard us before tonight, Mr. Scryer?" Sebastian opens a small box and draws out a black satin ribbon.

"No, I hadn't the pleasure, but after tonight, I'm a fan." Sebastian glows, ribbon in hand momentarily forgotten.

"Lovely. Shall I send you tickets to our next show?"

"Why don't you just let him sit backstage?"

"Excellent suggestion, Uncle."

"I'd rather be able to see the show, thank you," Harry mutters. He doesn't like the look of impish glee that crosses Lucius' face.

"Would you, now?" Lucius says. Harry blushes. Sebastian shoots Lucius a stern look.

"Be nice, Uncle."

"You ask the impossible," Lucius replies. Sebastian pointedly ignores him.

"Is this going to be an exclusive party or shall I invite Baby, Shadow, and the rest?" he says.

"Um, excuse me, but who are Baby and Shadow?" Harry asks.

"They are the guitarist, and violin/pianist of Azkaban," Lucius replies, smirking a little.

Confusion is a wonderful look for Harry. It brings out the color of his eyes.

"Every band member draws his nickname from a magazine article written about us. I'm Angel because I am 'celestially and divinely magnificent.' Baby is our youngest member and he has an obsession with pacifiers," Sebastian explains, gathering his hair.

"Pacifiers?" Harry echoes.

"Yes, he views them as a symbol of society's habit of shutting us up with things that distract us but don't really satisfy our needs."

"Baby's family had a habit of using money as a babysitter."

"Ah," Harry says, for lack of a better word.

"Consequently Baby doesn't touch the stuff." Sebastian pulls the ends of the ribbon to form a discrete bow. He examines his hair in the mirror.

"Money?" Harry asks, furrowing his brow.

"He doesn't believe in it." Sebastian and Lucius both shake their heads, as if to deny money was to deny a fundamental truth of the universe. "At any given time, he's either spending it like water or without it completely," Sebastian says, with a little hand gesture to illustrate "without."

"He cannot run from his wealth. He is worth millions of galleons," Lucius sighs.

"He's going to burn it the moment he inherits it," Sebastian replies.

At this point, it looks as if the conversation is causing Lucius physical pain. Harry knows that somewhere in Malfoy Manor, there is a bottle of aspirin with both their names on it. "This is why wizards need chemistry. Gold doesn't burn, Sebastian dear. It just melts," Lucius explains gently, as if to a small child. Harry snickers. Sebastian rolls his eyes.

"Oh, like it honestly matters. It was a quote, besides. Baby is one of the 'eccentric rich'," Sebastian says delicately. Lucius snorts in agreement.

Harry looks from the former minion of the Serpentine Wizard Equivalent to Hitler to said minion's cross-dressing nephew and laughs. Hysterically.

Both blondes look at him as if he has lost his mind.

_(because i can't get any _

_sort of section break _

_in here otherwise)_

Sebastian raps on Baby's door, the sound muffled by his gloves. He doesn't wait for a reply before he opens the door. Harry gasps.

The young man behind the door is covered in blood. At least that's what Harry thinks until he blinks and realizes that he isn't covered in blood, only very long, very dark red hair. His eyes pass over Harry disinterestedly from behind a curtain of this hair. He turns away, pulling his hair back into a sloppy ponytail.

"C'mon, Baby," Sebastian chides with a small smile. "Don't be cold. You haven't even given him a chance to screw up proper yet." Baby turns to Sebastian.

"Blow me," he replies. His voice is sexless, a whisper of what it once was, the effect of healing spells that can only repair, not restore vocal cords. Harry gasps again. Baby's eyes narrow at him. "What?" he snaps.

"You were a general," Harry says. Something like interest kindles in Baby's eyes as his eyebrows knit together in a glare that is nearly Malfoy-worthy.

"Do you always start conversation by reminding people of their failures?" he says sharply.

_Harry sees a small boy with a grim face and a delicate but firm jaw. His hair is a mass of Gryffindor red but his mind is as sharp as Ravenclaw steel as he explains. "Casualities," the boy sighs. "So many casualties. We may actually have more dead and severely injured than able fighters."_

"It was a good plan," Harry responded then, and he says the same thing now. Baby snorts derisively, but his glare softens.

"It was a desperate plan. I could have come up with a better plan if we had more time—"

"But time is the one thing you can't buy—"

"And time is the only thing that matters, " Baby finishes, his brow going smooth in surprise. 

It is a conversation they have had before. Baby raises his eyebrow a bit, scrutinizing Harry. His eyes light up in recognition. Harry shakes his head a little, hoping desperately that Baby won't give him away. Baby smiles slightly and pulls his hair loose with a small nod. When he turns around again, all Harry can see is a sheet of red. His throat constricts in the silent moment it takes Baby to slide his shirt off his shoulders.

"Lucius, you do pick up the most bizarre strays. Where did you find this one?" Harry's sigh of relief is nearly audible.

"The same place that I pick up all my dates," Lucius replies. Harry starts at the word "date." Baby eyes Harry over his shoulder.

"That's odd. He doesn't look like a gold-digging whore or a prostitute." Harry is stuck on the word "date." Lucius smiles a little. There is a touch of indulgence in his manner. Baby is apparently a favorite of Lucius'.

"That's because he's not; he's a teacher," the blond man explains. Baby laughs. It is a strange sound that makes Harry shift uncomfortably. Baby's appraising look is quick but thorough.

"A schoolmaster? With that body?" His smile is predatory. "Today's youth are so spoiled."

This is Harry's cue to blush. However, Harry is still stuck on the word "date."

"Sebastian, keep your chaperone close.I'm going to stealhim from you,"Baby announces, reaching for a black shirt. Sebastian chuckles.

"Not very stealthy about it, are you?" he teases from a nearby chair.

"I felt it my duty to warn you. I don't think I'll be able to help myself," Baby replies. Again, his smile is predatory. It slowly filters through the remnants of Harry's shock. He is reminded vaguely of his days working in the nightclub. He can feel everyone's eyes on him. He feels distinctly unnerved.

"I knew you'd warm up to him, James love.Isn't he delicious?" Lucius asks. The urge to glare at Lucius almost gets the better of Harry. Harry is also slightly annoyed by the title "James love." Harry had known James as a boy and he quite understood the temptation to call him "baby" and the desire protect the boy, who had always looked too young for anything life had thrown at him. But, damn it, terms of endearment are not supposed to be uttered by Lucius Malfoy to anyone. It is just... creepy.

Sebastian comes to his rescue. "Oh, come off it, both of you. Let the man alone. Baby, get dressed. We're going out," he says sternly

"Dress code?" Baby asks primly, tossing some of his hair over his shoulder.

"Like it matters, you'll only wear black anyway," Lucius says with a pointed glance at the shirt in Baby's hand. James looks thoughtful.

"But there are different levels of black. Is this casual black, trashy black, or elegant black?"

"You don't do casual black," Sebastian replies, raising his eyebrow.

"True, but that's irrelevant," Baby replies flippantly. His eyes do not match his tone.

"As if you don't know that the dress code is always dandy," Sebastian says dryly. James only smiles.

Sebastian proceeds to herd Harry and Lucius out into the hall so that Baby may dress in peace, and then goes to check on the other band members. The sound of the door shutting behind them dissipates the last bit of Harry's daze.

"I am not your date," he hisses as soon as Lucius' nephew is out of earshot. Lucius looks down at him coolly, a smile haunting the corners of his mouth.

"Of course not, " he replies smoothly, bowing slightly. "I apologize if you found my little joke in bad taste, Professor Scryer."

Harry hates it when Lucius wins.

* * *

Yeah, this chapter has already been altered from its originally posted version. I know things have taken a rather bizarre turn, but you guys should be used to me and bizarre, right? Keep the comments and questions coming and review! 

Love,

J. Silver


	13. Misadventures in Dining

A/n: Ok, so this chapter didn't turn out quite like I expected at all. It still needs work, but the kind of work I want to put into it could easily take another month and I don't want to do that to you.

Thank you Rock and Sarcasm, elvengoddess696, Marge, Lothirielwen, Adele Sparks (I think Baby would look positively edible in a corset), Saavik13, tinkita, dmweasley, Padfootlover719, ura-hd, Purple Raveness, Chibi Alania, FairyPoet, tessa3, moi, LitCandle, xikum, Arigazi, vote-larry4prez, and LillyEmerald (Sebastian is special).

Ok, I'm not entirely sure the name thing came out so clearly, so for the sake of reference:

Angel- Sebastian- Vocals

Baby- James- Guitar

Bates- Gabriel- Drums

Vlad- Michael- bass

Shadow- If I told you, I'd have to kill you- violin/piano

* * *

Lucius, Sebastian, and Harry wait for James just outside the backstage entrance. "How long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?" Sebastian asks.

"This is my first year."

"Divination?" Sebastian asks. Harry nods. "I thought so. My brother was quite fond of you."

"I was quite fond of him too," Harry responds. Sebastian smiles.

"He did have that effect on people, didn't he?"

"People either loved or hated him," Baby says breathlessly, apparating behind them. Sebastian leaned closer to Harry.

"He took after Uncle in that respect," the young man whispers. Harry stifles a laugh. Lucius sends them a warning glare.

For the first time, Harry finds himself unaffected by it.

"Um, can we start walking? Now perhaps," James suggests, with a nervous glance at the door.

After about a block, Harry chances a glance at James. In the bizarre orange light of the street lamps, Baby looks unreal- a slender shadow of the past, his hair cascading down the back of an austere black frock coat. He looks lost. Actually, he looks lost and molested- his hair mussed, his lips flushed and swollen and his shirt misbuttoned and half-undone.

"Groupies," Sebastian mutters, practically clucking with disapproval. Lucius chuckles.

"That explains why you couldn't just use the door like the rest of us, " he says, flicking his wand almost lazily in Baby's direction. The black shirt rights itself. Lucius adjusts the collar.

Harry can't say that he blames them. James just looks so available. It is easy to imagine that he would fold neatly into Harry's arms without objection as Harry-

"What are you looking at?" James asks, brown eyes lucid for the first time since they left the theater. His mouth curves into a smile that's almost seductive. The lights make garish angles at the corners of his mouth. Harry can only stare. Baby takes the ribbon out of his hair. It spills fetchingly across his face, a veil. He shakes it away. Harry gapes at him. Baby smiles. "Cat got your tongue, Scryer?" he asks. Harry doesn't respond. Baby laughs soundlessly, tying his hair back.

It is Sebastian who rouses Harry from his fascinated stupor. He laughs as he tugs at Harry's hand. His laugh sounds sweet to Harry and dissipates the last of his mental fog.

Harry doesn't remember the first part of dinner. Mostly, his attention is split between Baby, who makes witty comments as sharp as a razor and Sebastian, who has laughter like the ringing of a silver bell behind his kid-covered hands, while Lucius looks from one to the other, smiling indulgently. Harry is introduced to the other members of Azkaban in turn: Bates, a wild-eyed young man with curling brown hair and a contagious smile; Shadow, quiet and graceful; and Vlad, a green-eyed, black-haired young man who was often the object of Baby's subtle and not-so subtle innuendoes.

Vlad's eyes meet his halfway through dinner. His eyes stop Harry's blood. He has seen those eyes before from behind a mask. Vlad had been a Death Eater. He has seen all of them before actually: a general, a mediwizard, a spy, and a death eater. As he thinks about, it dawns on him that he also recognizes them collectively. The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly and any other magazine that speaks of them calls them the Dandies. They are the young upper crust types – pureblood, exceedingly wealthy, and very attractive. The five of them earned their special distinction for their deliberately ostentatious style of dress. The sudden realization makes him laugh.

Outlaws, veterans, rock stars, Witch Weekly's most eligible bachelors—such were the members of Azkaban.

Life, it seemed, only got stranger the harder one looked.

"Why?" Harry asks suddenly.

"Why what?" Vlad, asks politely.

"Why the band, the costumes, the names?"

"Professor Scryer, do you have any idea how boring it is to be the designated heir of families like ours? All you're good for is sitting on boards or committees of one sort or another. The social committee—"

"The board of trustees—" James volunteers.

"Advisor's Panel—" Gabriel adds.

"Board of Governors," this acknowledgment from Lucius makes Harry grin.

"No one expects you to work. Money like ours grows on its own. We have lawyers and accountants who make sure of it. If you work and you don't do the right sort of work, you're a disgrace. It is all or nothing."

"You served in the war." Directed at Vlad, it is an accusation. Vlad glances at Baby, who shrugs. At least, Harry notes, Vlad has the decency to look slightly ashamed.

"Honestly, the war was the best and worst thing that ever happened to most of us. We were able to do something, to make a difference, but the war is over now and we have nothing."

"Except Azkaban?"

"Azkaban gives us something to do. It's the only thing that doesn't depend on our money or who our fathers were. The costumes and the names protect our family from any imagined scandal."

"And you from their legacy." Vlad raises an eyebrow.

"Indeed." He looks vaguely impressed with Harry. Harry is, in turn, vaguely impressed that Vlad hasn't been tried as a war criminal.

"In my family, we take the cold silence before one guest goes for another's throat as our cue to serve dessert," Shadow says. It is the only thing he has said all meal.

"I think dessert is a fabulous idea," Bates says. "Sebastian, shall we help you clean up?" Sebastian looks at him as if he has lost this mind.

"Gabe, are you delusional? You wouldn't recognize a cleaning charm if it bit you." The smile Bates flashes Sebastian is dazzling and sweet.

"I suppose that's true, but I heard it on a Muggle contraption once and I always wanted to say it." Sebastian shakes his head, laughing to himself.

"I suppose you can call the house elf," he offers. Bates looks delighted.

Harry excuses himself from the table.

As he wanders down the hall a bit, it occurs to him that he has a lot of nerve being angry at Vlad for being a Death Eater when he had spent the night at the home of the most infamous of the lot. Vlad couldn't be much older than Harry and was probably dragged into the war the same way Harry was- accident of birth. Harry tries to remember Vlad's record. Michael- a lump comes into Harry's throat as he recalls Vlad's last name- Lestrange was the youngest general in Voldemort's ranks. Number of unforgivables curses was estimated at 30. Number of deaths caused was unknown. Suddenly lost favor for reasons that were still not apparent. Deserted two months before the war's end.

Somehow Harry does not feel any more favorable toward the young man, but Harry cannot help but think that Lucius will be disappointed if Harry can't at least manage some civility toward him. Harry sighs and steels himself to be faultlessly polite.

He turns the corner to find Baby and Vlad in the hallway. Michael's fingers are intertwined in Baby's long red hair and the way he looks at James hurts Harry. His lips cover James'. Harry can feel the heat from their kiss even though he is a quarter of a Quidditch pitch away. All Harry can see is the blood red of James' hair reflecting the fire light as his body blends with Michael's, the black of their clothes and Michael's hair fading into shadow. Harry's heart aches as he wonders what it's like to be kissed liked that, if he'll ever be kissed like that.

Sebastian steps out of the dining room and spies his friends. "Michael, what would your grandfather say if the Daily Prophet got a picture of you with your tongue down James' throat?"

"He'd say 'lawsuit' and everyone at the Prophet would lose that picture faster than my grandfather could make them lose their jobs," Michael replies. James laughs.

"He is the sort of bastard who'd do something like that," he says. Sebastian turns to Harry.

"What about you? Would like some coffee or would you rather just goggle at the exhibitionists?"

"I was on my way back from the bathroom, " Harry replies, blinking.

"Right, coffee for you then," Sebastian says, disappearing back into the dining room.

Michael takes Harry by the elbow, and begins to lecture him sternly. "Sebastian is the moral backbone of our group. If you corrupt him, Scryer-"

"He'll only succeed where you've already tried and failed," interrupts Gabriel. Michael pouts, then shrugs, accepting a cup of coffee.

"Mr. Scryer and I will be good friends, I'm sure," Sebastian says primly. Lucius smiles, accepting a cup of coffee from his nephew. James enters. He looks like he's been molested again. He grins at the sight of Harry turning a very becoming shade of crimson and throws himself at him, kissing him passionately.

"Looks like James already beat you to the punch," Michael remarks. Baby accepts his cup from Sebastian with thanks.

Then he makes Vlad wear the contents.

"I'll have you know this coat is older than your entire family tree," Michael says, scowling.

"High time you got a new one then," James replies flippantly, kissing Harry again.

Harry is grateful that his blush can't be seen beneath the veil of Baby's hair.

* * *

Alright, you know the deal: comments and criticism welcome. Review! 

Love,

J. Silver


	14. Holding on to the past a little too hard...

A/N: This chapter finished itself! Yay! I love it when that happens.

Thank you Sincerity and faith, Lothirielwen (It is a bit unusual, isn't it?), AniD (Leave an email address with your next review, please?), Avain (Lol. Harry's not quite as graceful in dealing with them as he is in dealing with Lucius, is he? I think you're right, he is in a bit of a shock. ), Arigazi (Sorry. I'm going to work on editing that chapter so it's a bit more clear. James, also known as Baby, kissed Harry.), Rock and Sarcasm, vote-larry4prez (fight? as if Lucius has competition...), Purple Raveness, FairyPoet (Yeah, that's the general gist. Baby...gets around.), angelkitty77, Crystal, and xikum (You ask such good questions. Keep asking good questions. You make me think about my story. )

* * *

"He doesn't dislike you because of James," Lucius says once they have returned to his study.

"I really don't care why he dislikes me," Harry replies. He knows he is bad at faking indifference. At the moment, he doesn't care. Lucius raises an eyebrow.

"Really? That's unusual; normally one wants to get along with someone one is going to have to see every day," he says, removing his travelling cloak.

"I don't expect you to understand," Harry replies, crossing his arms.

"Try me," Lucius says, taking his customary chair by the fire.

"His name is Lestrange." A dark look passes over Lucius' face. When it clears, Lucius looks as if he has aged ten years.

"Let me guess. His parents killed someone you loved?" Harry nods tersely, willing himself not to think of Sirius, not to think of what he did to Bellatrix when he and Draco finally cornered her. Lucius sighs. " I probably helped them, yet you and I get along just fine." Harry stares at him blankly.

"I'm sorry. Was that an attempt to make me feel better? Because if it was, it was miserable. I expect better from you," he says coldly. However, his tone is no mach for the icy glare that Lucius gives him.

"If you want to start holding grudges against people for what happened during the war, why don't you start with me? I have a hell of a lot more sins than Michael does." Harry doesn't doubt it. He knows Lucius' record, too.

"That doesn't make him innocent," Harry says stubbornly. Lucius' smile is devoid of warmth and any sort of happiness.

"The only innocent one in that room tonight was Sebastian," he says. If Harry were quicker, he'd be all over that comment. But Harry is not quicker and he has never won any awards for brilliance, just grit and a bravery that Draco always condemned as "brainless recklessness."

"What on earth does he need a chaperone for with the illustrious company he keeps: two Death Eaters, a war hero, a spy, and the best field surgeon in Scotland. Heaven help the thing that should come after your nephew! What? Is the idea that Sebastian should marry the wrong sort of girl so repulsive to you that he needs a bodyguard worthy of the fucking Minister of Magic?" Harry knew by the glittering of Lucius' eyes that he stepped way over the line. He was so far over the line that it was a miracle that he was still in one piece and if he kept performing miracles like this, he was going to be cannonized and then Draco's taunt of "Saint Harry of Potter" would be a fact.

"My, my, Mr. Scryer, but you do know your war trivia. Not many people can recognize those boys once they've put their frock coats on, but you can. I wonder if you haven't met them before?" Lucius' tone is light but his implication is serious. Harry bites his lip, silently damning himself for his inability to keep his mouth shut.

"What about Sebastian?" he says, changing topics. It is perhaps the first wise thing he has done all evening.

"Sebastian is an empath," Lucius says. Harry starts.

"I'm sorry. I thought you said your nephew was an empath," he says.

"I did. Apparently you know something about how rare they are."

"They're about as rare as true seers, but that's all I know about them," Harry says, shaking his head.

"Empaths can sense emotions in those around them. Sebastian is a strong empath. He can sense emotions left behind on objects, in places. His sense of empathy is most acute when channeled through a physical medium."

Harry thinks on this.

"That explains the gloves," he says at last. Lucius smiles.

"Yes, it does. "

"It explains his singing too," Harry adds, not bothering to hide the admiration in his voice.

"Yes, that is the only time he takes full advantage of his gifts."

"Why?"

"He is afraid, I think. Sebastian has always been coddled and protected. He had the kind of childhood we would all have liked to provide for our children." Lucius fell silent. Harry knew that he was thinking of Draco. He can always tell bcause that is when he starts to think about him as well. Slowly, it was starting to occur to him that perhaps Lucius was every bit as proud of Draco as Draco had been of Lucius. The thought pleases him. It is proper that Lucius would be proud of Draco. Harry has been for years. He is rather tired of feeling like the only one. The silence between them is a comforting one and it eases the tension remaining between them. Lucius sighs and continues. "While Sebastian has not experienced many of the horrors of the war, his friends have. They have killed and they have watched others be killed."

"And if he uses his gifts to their full extent, he'll bear witness to it and he doesn't know if he could handle their grief?" Harry asks, but even as he says it, he knows that is not right. He frowns as he tries to think of a way to word the situation better-- to make it fit. Lucius frowns as well.

"Not exactly. It's something I think you will come to understand as you know Sebastian more," he says at last. Harry nods.

"Do you really approve of this?" Harry asks after a moment of silence. He has to admit that from all the Lucius horror stories he had heard in school that he never would have guessed that Lucius would support a venture so wildly out of step with the Pureblood Old Guard.

"What precisely is this?" Lucius asks, tiredly.

"Azkaban, Sebastian cross-dressing."

"Everyone has their own path, Mr. Scryer," the older man sighs.

"But Dr-" Harry stopped himself abruptly, slapping his hand over his mouth so fast, it hurt. He winces.

"Yes?"

"Your son—" Harry says, regretting that he has to bring up this topic. Then again tact and thoughtfulness seem to be beyond him this evening, but if Harry is completely honest, tact and thoughtfulness always were beyond him. Lucius' expression is unchanging.

"My son chose his path. He followed his conscience and I am very proud of him for that. He did what I couldn't."

"You didn't believe in Voldemort's cause?" Harry asks, amazed that anything Lucius could say or do could still shock him.

"The cause I believed in was betrayed by a psycho. I don't believe in death. I don't believe in immortality. I believe in heritage."

"Heritage?" Harry echoes. There is a bitter edge to Lucius' voice that is unfamiliar. He doesn't like it anymore than he likes seeing the blond man wallowing in sadness. It is new. Harry has already had enough of newness for one night.

"Yes, our history, our laws, our traditions—the things they don't teach in school anymore because they feel that Muggleborns would be at a disadvantage."

Harry didn't understand. He didn't understand anything that both Malfoys had kept telling him about heritage and "our kind." He wasn't interested in the rules that bound the wizarding society together. He was just the handyman. People called upon him to fix Voldemort's messes as if that were all he was all fit for, all he was meant to do.

"_Potter, I think my father likes you," Draco said with what Harry had come to call "restrained amusement."_

"_What are you on about, Malfoy? Your father looks at me as if I'm a bug to be squashed," Harry replied with less restrained amusement. _

"_Enemy to be reckoned with," corrected the other boy._

"_But still to be squashed," Harry observed._

"_But not at dinner."_

"_Is that the famous Malfoy hospitality that I've heard absolutely nothing about?" Harry replied dryly. Draco chuckled._

"_You know, Potter, I think you're developing a sense of wit," he said with cool approval._

"_A mistake, I assure you. It's probably you and your father rubbing off on me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to take a bath. If I don't get to the Malfoy right away, it'll stain and I'll have to abandon all hope of ever being decent person."_

_Draco snorted. "You'll never be a decent person, Potter." Harry stopped short, turning to stare in undisguised shock. "You're too much like me. We're just powerful tools. We don't know anything about being people. We were never raised to be people." Harry bit his lip, wondering when Draco had the time to develop a talent for revealing Harry's unvoiced fears in between fighting a war and fixing his usually perfect hair.  
_

"_Wow, Malfoy. Have you even heard of optimism?" he asked. Draco laughed unkindly._

"_You mean lying to yourself to dilute reality when you're not strong enough for the truth?"_

"_Apparently not," Harry said, more to himself than to Draco. _

"_I don't do optimism. I deal with realities, the kind no one likes to see."_

"_No wonder you're always the life of the party." Draco smiled at him in a way that seemed to say that he was truly sorry for Harry's fate, because after all, his was the same. Pity? From Draco Malfoy, who did pity as well as he did optimism? Harry couldn't stand that. He left._

Sometimes Harry wonders if maybe they were right, if Draco was right. For all intents and purposes, Harry is inept at day to day living. He is so used to living under a death sentence that he doesn't know what to do without the specter of Danger looming over him.

"I don't understand," Harry says. " I was an orphan. No one bothered to teach me anything but what I needed to survive." _Except Draco._ It was true, but if it was true, why did it sound so miserable? How could one sentence make his entire life seem so bleak? It couldn't… not unless his life was already that bleak and he just took a spectacularly long time to notice.

"That's unfortunate." Lucius says. He says it without anything that Harry has come to recognize as sympathy, but Harry feels better. "Sebastian knows where he comes from. He knows where his obligations lie. He is free to do whatever he likes—it is his life after all. I will support him in anything that does not conflict with his obligations." Somehow that statement is so very Lucius Malfoy—both the old Lucius Malfoy that used to scare the piss out of Harry and the one with whom he has recently become acquainted. Harry chuckles.

"How strange. I always picked you for a conservative," Harry says with a glance at Lucius.

"Conservatism is often a euphemism for 'lazy thinking'," Lucius replies, pouring himself a drink. Harry grins, declining the glass Lucius offers him.

"I just figured you wanted to preserve the old way because it meant you came out on top."

"I'm always on top, Mr. Scryer. I don't need a political agenda to make sure of that, "Lucius replies, taking a sip of his drink. Harry resists the urge to chuckle. The last thing he wants to do is encourage Lucius. He rolls his eyes instead.

"You are so alpha male," he scoffs. Lucius raises an eyebrow.

"You say that like it bothers you."

"It does," Harry says, crossing his arms.

"You are such a horrible liar," Lucius says, his eyes glittering with cool amusement.

Unfortunately Harry has no reply for that.

* * *

Ok, so comments, criticism, and questions are all welcome. Be a dear and review!

Love,

J. Silver


	15. Forgiveness?

A/N: This chapter is short, but I've been taking a really long time and I wanted to get something out for you guys. It's kind of like Chapter 15 part A. I'll try to hurry with the next bit.

Thank you GypsyJade, Saavik 13, CrimsonTearsofPain, StaarryGazer, Chara13, Celonsoren13, AniD, ura-hd, Purple Raveness, Crystal, HP Girl 28, Avain, FairyPoet, and alliekatgal.

* * *

Harry had not been to the manor in nearly a week. Nor had he replied to any of the customary letters Sebastian and his friends had sent expressing their "distinct pleasure" in making Harry's acquaintance. Nor had he even opened the envelope addressed to him in elegant, vaguely Gothic handwriting that reminded him in a very unpleasant way of Draco.

At first, he had thought that the reason he had been so adverse to corresponding with anyone he had seen during that dinner was because he was still fuming at Lucius. However, that delusion only lasted halfway until the second day, when he realized that he really wasn't angry with anyone except himself.

Then he tried to tell himself that he was simply ashamed a how horribly rude he had been and that Draco would kill him if the blonde had been able to see what Harry had done with the hours Draco spent trying to drill some sense of delicacy into his head. Yes, Harry had behaved very poorly. However, Harry soon came to realize that shame wasn't the issue. And Draco simply would have told him in no uncertain terms how hopeless he was.

In order to avoid compounding the issue, he jots quick, polite replies to the notes he had received, being particularly careful when responding to Michael's surprisingly warm note. It appears that Lucius was correct and the younger man is not holding a grudge against him… Or that he is simply demonstrating his superior manners. Harry resists the urge to mutter "show-off" under his breath, reasoning that he really is getting too old to be that juvenile.

Lucius' envelope goes unopened.

On the fifth day, Harry's predominant line of thought is something along the lines of "How the hell did I manage to live this long and be this stupid?" Staring hard at the innocuous white envelope, Harry comes to grip with the real reason he hasn't opened it: fear. Because of his thoughtlessness, the last time he had words with Lucius had come out as a thinly veiled confession of who he really was. If he is going to reply to Lucius' letter now, he may as well sign the damn thing "Yours out of complete and utter stupidity, Harry James Potter."

It's rather sad, really.

Or it would have been, if he isn't so unbelievably tired. He hasn't slept properly in days. He has tried, but it is obscenely late by the time he can convince himself to get into bed and when his head hits the pillow, he cries himself into a shallow sleep. Or worse. Sometimes he doesn't sleep and he just lays staring, exhaustion covering him like a blanket until the hard glare of dawn burns his eyes.

He would sell his soul for a good dreamless sleeping draught.

After a full week, he gets a card:

"Mr. Scryer,

It has come to my attention that you are sleeping poorly, partially due to your own stubborn pride. I have had the fireplace in your room at Hogwarts connected to my room at the manor. Please make use of it. The house elves rather enjoy making the bed. I feel it is a shame to deprive them of such joy.

Yours,

Lucius Augustus Malfoy

P.S. You have forgiven me my past once. I gladly return the favor."

Harry doesn't know whether this makes him feel any better. Then he decides that thinking is a task best performed after a 12-hour nap.

He wakes up to find strong tea and a blonde waiting for him. "Did you know that you sleep with your eyes open?" Sebastian asks, handing Harry a cup the moment he sits up in bed. Harry grunts something that may have been "yes" or a famous line of Medieval Troll poetry. He takes a sip.

"Thank you," Harry mumbles. The tea is good. The warmth of it as it goes down is the first distinct feeling he can remember in days. He looks over at Sebastian, who is seated not three feet away.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. Sebastian smiles.

"Keeping you company. Uncle was rather worried that you would bolt without anyone having a chance to see how you were. He's worried about you, you know," he says. He pours himself a cup of tea. Harry takes another sip, furrowing his brow a bit.

"No, I didn't know," he replies. Sebastian looked politely astonished.

"There are at least fifty beds in this house. Surely, you don't think you're in his by coincidence," the boy says. Harry chokes on his tea. Sebastian waits for his coughing to subside before continuing. " There is something about you he likes. I am not surprised. Your charm is evident. However, Uncle is more than simply charmed by you. You should know that." Harry says nothing, becoming rather fascinated with stirring his tea.

"You should also know that, should you trifle with his feelings, you will regret it. I'll see to it," Sebastian adds, his tone casual.

Harry nearly drops his tea in surprise.

"I-I—what? How could I possibly—" Harry's thoughts are so scrambled that he cannot even form a complete thought, let alone voice it. Sebastian chuckles, taking the tea from Harry before he hurts himself.

"I apologize, Mr. Scryer. It appears you are an honest man. It is a little tricky to tell. There are always people who want something from Lucius."

"I can imagine," Harry mumbles absently, thinking that Malfoys and their relatives were going to be the death of him.

"My uncle has lost much. I couldn't bear to see him hurt again." There is genuine compassion in Sebastian's voice. It is completely foreign and Harry almost doesn't recognize it for what it was. Once he does, he feels inexplicably sad.

"Me neither," Harry says, almost surprised to find that he is sincere. Sebastian extends his hand. Harry takes it.

"I believe you. Welcome to the family," Sebastian says, rising. "Breakfast will be served as soon as you're dressed. The floo won't be unlocked until you've eaten properly. You're looking right peaked. Do be quick." Harry nods dumbly, wondering just what kind of family he had gotten himself into. Sebastian flashes him a dazzling smile and leaves him to his privacy.

It isn't until the door closes that Harry realized that Sebastian wasn't wearing any gloves.

* * *

More to follow as soon as I can. Meanwhile, review!

Luv ya,

J. Silver


	16. A Crisis of Publicity

A/n: You guys are so fast! I figured I'd return the favor.

Thank you very much Xikum (I'm not entirely sure this chapter will clear anything up-- except for what was in the envelope. Answrs will come... eventually), Saavik13 (aww, but his hopelessness is part of his charm, don't you think?), CannonFodder, Fiery Pheonix, Arigazi (Sebastian's gloves reduce his ability to sense feelings via touch), Lyla Hayden, Stolen Dreamer, vote-larry4prez, alliekatgirl, sammy, and Chara13.

* * *

Harry is clean and presentable in fifteen minutes. However it takes him another ten minutes to drag himself down to the dining room. Lucius and Sebastian are already there. "Hello again, Mr. Scryer," Sebastian says. Harry replies in kind. Lucius doesn't look up from his paper. Harry decides that the sinking feeling in his stomach is hunger and reaches for a cinnamon roll. Lucius grabs his wrist mid-reach, nearly giving Harry his second heart attack of the morning.

"Don't eat that," he says. Harry waits for his pulse to return to normal.

"Why not?" he asks, hoping that his annoyance is crystal clear.

"Gabriel made those," Lucius answers.

"Uncle!" Sebastian chides.

"Made?" Harry echoes.

"Yes, as in made personally—with his own hands," Lucius clarifies. Since Gabriel is a wizard, Harry is not sure that is a good thing.

"Er—"

"I think they're very good for a first attempt," Sebastian says, taking a bite out of one of the rolls in question. He chews with some difficulty. Lucius smirks.

"Sebastian is too kind. You could wage an airborne assault with those things," he remarks to Harry.

"Uncle!" Sebastian's reprimand was a tad late, having to wait until he was actually able to swallow.

" It's true. Gabriel is a fine young man, but a pastry chef he is not. He is, however spectacularly bored, which is why I think he's planning to unveil his next creation tomorrow night." Even Sebastian cannot hide the trace of a wince.

"You've got to stop him."

"I knew you'd come around. " Lucius releases Harry's wrist. "You don't want to eat those. Croissant?"

"Please."

Harry chews rather thoughtfully, eyeing the cinnamon rolls of doom in front of him with a wry grin.

"Anything interesting in the Prophet?" Sebastian asks.

"Thankfully, no," Lucius replies. "Unless you consider this nonsense about 'dandies' and 'dinner party of the year' interesting," he adds, grinning slyly at Sebastian.

"They didn't really print that?" Sebastian says.

"No, actually, the columnist says it'll be quite the bore."

" What?" Sebastian says, snatching the paper from Lucius, decorum forgotten in the face of outrage. He glances at the article. "If you'll excuse me, Uncle, Mr. Scryer."

"Of course," Lucius and Harry reply. Sebastian's exit is hasty.

"Where do you think he's going?" Harry asks.

"Probably to James' home. It's where they tend to do all their loudest activities."

"What makes you think this will be loud?"

"Emile Postwitch wrote a rather critical article about a party that hasn't happened yet. She said that Sebastian was 'the dullest of an overly hyped lot' with nothing to recommend him but beauty and an unusual naivete that would be far more attractive if he was a woman as opposed to simply being effeminate."

Harry winced. "That's very catty," but, if Harry recalls correctly, not atypical of that particular writer.

"Ms. Postwitch didn't receive an invitation," Lucius says. Harry remembers that Ms. Postwitch had covered Draco's funeral. The things she said had made it necessary for Ron and Hermione to physically restrain Harry to prevent him from holding her at wandpoint and demanding she recant the article. Fortunately James and a few others had gotten to her instead.

"No, of course she didn't," Harry says, smirking. Then something occurs to him "Party?" he says. Lucius chuckles.

"I knew you never replied to my invitation, but I didn't think you hadn't even read it."

"How did you sleep?" Lucius asks, after a moment.

"Better than I have in a while."

"You didn't need to stay away because of our disagreement."

"It was stupid and immature of me to say the things I did," Harry says.

"A little," Lucius agrees, folding his hands. "You have that tendency."

"Hey!" Harry protests.

"Sadly, it's too late for me to see the light, and I like you regardless." Harry is speechless. Lucius closes his mouth gently. Harry blushes, unaware that he had been gaping.

"That's not fair," he says. Lucius smiles.

"Whatever gave you the idea that I play fair?"

"Did you read the utter rubbish that Postbitch wrote?" James yells, striding into the dining room. He stops abruptly at the sight of Lucius' hand on Harry's chin and Harry blushing wildly. He raises an eyebrow. "Did I interrupt something?" he ask.

"You wish," Lucius replies. James grins.

"Ah, that would be quite the treat, I admit. Hot and hot. Mmm, delicious."

"Contain your excitement before you need to clean it off your pants," Michael drawled, smacking James on the shoulder with a copy of the Prophet.

"Gabriel could help you, I'm sure," Shadow teases. James winces.

"Um, no thank you. I rather like knowing where all my parts are."

"Relax. I can reattach anything that might come loose in the cleaning process," Gabriel replies flippantly, arriving with a distraught Sebastian.

"This is terrible!" he says, pouting beautifully.

"At least she said you were pretty," Gabriel says.

"Right before she said you'd be better off as a woman. I happen to agree. At least then your chastity would be a virtue instead of a damned inconvenience," Michael replies, taking one of Gabriel's cinnamon rolls off the table.

"That thought was very much outloud," Shadow says.

"I know," Michael says, taking a bite out of the cinnamon roll. He chokes.

"Karma," Gabriel chuckles, smacking his friend hard between the shoulder blades. Michael stops choking. "How on earth did you get a hold of those things? I asked Mother to toss them, " he says, gesturing to the pile of cinnamon rolls.

"She sent them here instead," Lucius replied, grinning.

"That wasn't very nice of her."

"Ahem, I believe our angelic one is in the middle of the biggest crisis of his innocent little life," Shadow says gently.

"Of course," Lucius says. "I wouldn't worry about it. She's just bitter that she doesn't have an invitation. The fact that she won't be going will encourage more of the more withdrawn families to attend. Besides, her glowing remarks about your beauty will have every man and woman with a pulse curious to see you. Oh, and her comments about your naivete will have every woman pushing her applicable daughter at you and every man in the room trying to seduce you. Almost single-handedly, Ms. Postwitch has insured that people will talk about nothing but you from now until well after the party. I fail to see the problem."

"Lucius, you are a sly devil," Michael says reverently.

"Any publicity is good publicity, eh?" James says, laughing to himself.

"Wait, when is this party?" Harry asks.

"Saturday."

" Oh," Harry says, frowning.

"You are coming, aren't you?" Sebastian says.

"Well—" Harry begins hesitantly. Parties have never been his thing.

"Oh, but you have to! You must come. As my chaperone you have to be there! "

"If you don't give in, he'll cry," James whispers in Harry's ear. Harry looks horrified. "You don't want that, trust me." Sure enough, Sebastian's eyes began to tear.

"I'll go!" Harry says. Sebastian throws himself at Harry, hugging him as if he had just done the blonde the greatest favor. His smile is brilliant, as always.

"Thank you, Mr. Scryer. Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen. I have things which demand my attention." Harry simply gapes after him.

"I've never felt so blatantly manipulated in my life," he says. The remaining members of the group exchange knowing smiles.

"It's one of Sebastian's finer talents. Lucius likes to blackmail; Draco would do it himself; Nicholas would seduce; Sebastian pouts and cries. It's really just as affective," James says.

Harry rather agrees.

* * *

These boys move everything along so fast! Oh well. Until next time, review!

Love,

J. Silver


	17. Skeletons

A/N: I suppose this fic is officially AU with the release of Half-Blood Prince. Sorry it took so long. You wouldn't believe how many times I've written and rewritten separate sections of this chapter!

Thank you Annis Pekka, Aurelia Malfoy, Modular Blues, Goldensong, JDCG (You'd have to blame my parents for my sense of humor.), Twisted Maniac, OryssaV, scorpion moon goddess, lusiki, destruction's mistress, Hikari Tenshi Mika Rissa, Eowyns Entity, Mags, Kumak, ScarlettAdmirer, CrimsonTearsofPain,lovi, Lyla Hayden, Purple Raveness, Arigazi, AniD, StolenDreamer, Avain, Lothirielwen, Saavik13, psychmarci, fairPoet, RoschLupin-Black, alliekatgal, vote-larry4prez, and Fiery Pheonix.

* * *

The final performance of Azkaban's current tour was two days prior to Sebastian's party. Harry found himself at the after party in a club not too far away from the venue. Harry is not particularly fond of clubs. Aside from bringing up memories he doesn't exactly cherish, he doesn't care for the noise or the crowd. Harry has long had a distinct distaste for crowds.

He hangs by the bar. Sebastian is close by, looking uncharacteristically cold in an austere charcoal suit. No one dares to approach him. He watches the crowd with something between amusement and disgust. "The look on your face would curdle milk," Gabriel says conversationally. Sebastian raises an eyebrow, a gesture that is unmistakably Malfoy.

"You would have this look on your face too if you could feel what I'm feeling."

"Let me guess: animalistic lust and the overpowering need to have one's id satisfied immediately regardless of the cost to anyone else in the room," Gabriel replies. Sebastian looks tempted to smile.

"And that's just from Baby," Shadow teases, sliding by. Sebastian doesn't laugh.

"It's hard to tell what he feels. He spends so much time trying to escape himself," he says quietly.

"I don't understand you," Harry says, once Shadow and Gabriel have left. Sebastian's smile is nearly flirtatious.

"Oh? Was there something to understand about me?" he says.

"I think so. You seem like two completely different people. When you were trying to convince me to attend your party, you were like a spoiled little girl. Then you surprise me by acting, well, like a Malfoy. Which are you, Angel? Are you a sweet, innocent doll or are you an ice prince like your brother, your cousin, and your uncle?" Sebastian chuckles.

"Neither, but I can give a good imitation."

"Why even bother with the imitation?"

"The ice prince is great for intimidating the hell out of people. As for the other, it's not entirely an imitation. My… condition makes it difficult for people to relate to me. Traditionally, empaths are reclusive. Those who aren't usually go insane from the emotional and mental stress. For my own well being, I've been sheltered all my life. I've never had any sort of meaningful relationship with anyone who wasn't a blood relative. I am a virgin. Sex is an emotional event I know I can't handle. That I'm even going on this Tour, that I have some expectation of marrying and having a normal life is unusual and a rather bold statement for my family."

"What about the band?"

"Cousins—boys I grew up with who went away to war and came back with broken wings, if they came back at all."

Harry is silent. The last time he had a conversation like this with someone… actually he can't remember the last time he had a conversation like this with someone. Sebastian laughs a little. Harry smiles a little.

"Am I talking too much? I admit, it's rather odd for me to be telling you my life story like this."

"No, I don't mind."

" Though I will admit that I'm exaggerating a bit. It makes them feel better. The others like to feel that someone escaped the war unscathed, that there is something good and uncorrupted in this world and somehow, feeling that they help to protect my innocence allows them to sleep a little easier."

"And actually?"

"I'm not sure. It's hard to be innocent when you can read people. I didn't fight, but I've looked into their eyes and seen people dying. They can't hide it. The only time they don't think about it is when we're performing or when they're taking care of me."

"You feel like you give them hope," Harry says after a brief silence. For a moment, he feels profoundly sorry for the boy who has taken on the responsibility of saving everyone around him. Harry has tried that route. He has tried letting others dream through him. He has failed.

"I try."

"Even if it means hiding how you feel, who you are?"

"I'm an empath. By nature, I'm more aware of what other's feel than what I feel."

"Don't you think the whole thing is a bit two-faced?"

"You would know all about being two-faced, wouldn't you, Mr. Scryer?" Harry has no response. "Even the best masks allow some of the person beneath to show through. You wear this unblemished skin, this mask of a functional human being, but underneath it, you're scarred. Maybe not as badly scarred as Baby, but there's something—something you're hiding or something you're hiding from…" Sebastian says, peering into Harry's eyes. Harry has the distinct feeling of someone else inside his head. He breaks eye contact.

"Your uncle didn't mention invading other's thoughts as one of your talents." Sebastian chuckles.

"Once upon a time, I studied Legilimency. Uncle thought it would give my abilities direction. "

"So you thought you'd practice your latent talents on me?" Harry asks.

"No, I was only curious and I momentarily forgot myself. I'm sorry."

Harry decides to believe him. His eyes stray over to Harry's eyes wander over to a booth in the corner. Baby is there, supporting himself on the table as a stranger fondles him through his pants. Apparently, he grows tired of that, pulling Baby's pants down and pushing him down on the table. From where Harry is standing, Baby's moans are soundless, involving a lowering of eyelids, a gasp and an arching of the spine that Harry is fascinated by. Baby opens his eyes, sees Harry watching. There is something about his expression that sends chills down Harry's spine. His eyes are surprisingly dull, but they flicker to life again as a grin flits across his face. Harry looks away.

"He looks delicate, but he'll eat you alive." Harry starts at the sound of Shadow's voice in his ear.

"I think I'd break him," Harry says, pretending that he had no interest in Baby. The chuckling of his companions tells him that he has failed miserably. Shadow leans against the bar. The motion is fluid, graceful. If Harry were less distracted, he'd be impressed.

"You can't break James. He's already broken himself." Sebastian says, sipping the drink that Shadow offers him.

"You want him," Shadow says, the corners of his mouth quirking. Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Shadow smiles at him knowingly. Harry attempts to glare at the young man instead, which is difficult when that particular young man is looking unearthly in gold eye shadow and brown leather. Shadow shrugs. "I'm not trying to tell you that you shouldn't, just make sure you leave with everything you came with."

"Like what? " Harry asks, raising an eyebrow. Shadow doesn't answer, toying with strand of Sebastian's hair instead. Sebastian swats at him lazily.

"Like your young and idealistic heart," Sebastian replies. Harry snorts.

"I haven't had one of those in years," Harry says. Shadow chuckles. Harry looks back at Baby.

Baby is gorgeously and indecently sprawled across the tabletop, his hair spilling over the edge. It is Vlad who comes to collect him, scooping him off the table and setting his clothing to rights. The look Baby gives him is almost adoring. Vlad kisses him gently. Baby collapses in his arms. Sebastian gestures to Vlad with a nod. "That boy is the only one who can get through to him. He is the only one Baby'll let in. You really don't want to be banging your head against a wall with Baby. I love the boy, but he's a dead end. "

"Shut up and have another drink, you faux cynic," Shadow says, sliding another drink toward Sebastian, who smirks at him.

"Notice how you didn't call me a liar," he says triumphantly, downing his drink.

" Well, Baby definitely has a few skeletons in his closet. Maybe even a few we don't know about, eh?" Shadow says. Sebastian pretends to be shocked.

"Something you don't know? Surely, you're joking!"

"Well, I can't know everything, can I?" Shadow says, winking at Harry. Harry chokes on his drink.

"Merlin, Shadow, you've killed him!"

Sebastian's party is a smash. At least, for Sebastan it is. As Lucius had predicted, the young man is quite definitely the belle of the ball. Luckily, he has a talent for naturally assuming the center of attention and is charming and endearing in the spotlight. Harry, however, is rather uncomfortable and feeling slightly awkward in his best manners and a set of black velvet dress robes that James had shoveled him into upon discovering that the set he had sent to Harry as a gift had suffered a mysterious "accident" involving the giant squid. Harry has smiled and nodded and made polite small talk for nearly three hours now, and though he admittedly is not a drinker, the idea of downing a few cocktails is starting to seem quite appealing. He settles for conversation with two of the Hornby siblings: Diana, married to Lord Such and Such of Some Place Harry Isn't Even Sure Exists Anymore, and Alistair, who is Someone Very Important at Someplace that Harry had Never Heard Of.

All has been going smoothly. Diana and Alistair are as beautifully mannered as the rest of their kin and Harry has no trouble getting along with them. "I feel as if we've met before," Diana says, pursing her lips as she tries to remember where their paths may have crossed. Harry chuckles.

"I assure you, we haven't met. Unless it was in a dream and I doubt that I'd have such luck even then," he replies. Diana's laugh is like Sebastian's—the tinkling of a silver bell.

"Bravo. Did Uncle Lucius teach you that or was that natural?" Alistair says, grinning.

"That's it! You remind me of Draco!" Diana says, clapping her hands in delight at finally solving the mystery. Harry goes wooden.

"Yes, you're right. His mannerisms are incredibly similar. He even holds his glass the same way," Alistair observes.

"Draco?" Harry echoes, his mouth suddenly dry. His companions look mildly shocked.

"Draco Malfoy?" Diana says. " He was something of a war hero. He worked with Harry Potter. He died saving him actually." Harry blinks.

"Draco Malfoy's death was an accident," Harry says. Alistair laughs.

"Do you believe everything you read in the Daily Prophet? James!"

James makes his way across the room. For a moment Harry is stunned. It takes a moment for him to reconcile the serious young man in front of him with the one sprawled across the table at the club last night. James gives a slight bow.

"You called?" he says.

"Tell Professor Scryer how Draco died," Diana says. The ghost of a smile that the red-haired boy has worn all evening vanishes.

"I really don't think now is a good time for such a story."

"I think now is the perfect time. Professor Scryer is under the impression that Draco's death was an accident. We need you, with your encyclopedic knowledge of the war, to set him straight," Alistair insists. James' lips compress into a thin line. His eyes are dark and unreadable as he glances at Harry.

"I really must insist that now is not a ---"

"Why not? Now is as good a time as any!" Harry says. His voice is tense with emotions he can't even begin to categorize. Those within earshot turn to watch the unfolding scene.

"Please. Later perhaps, but not—"

"How did Draco die, James?"

The sound of shattering glass is the only sound in the otherwise deathly silent room.

Shadow is suddenly at James' elbow along with Michael, who appears by Harry's side. Shadow glowers at the two of them. "Have you gone completely mad? Or did you happen to forget that you're talking about Lucius' only son while the man is still in the same room?" he hisses, dragging James out of the room by the elbow and leaving Michael to damage control. Harry steals a glance at Lucius who has gone deathly pale, but otherwise appears perfectly composed. His eyes meet Harry's. Harry hurries out.

He makes it to Lucius' study before Grief slaps him hard across the face and brings him to his knees. He cries silently, each tear wrung from him like blood from a stone. It isn't long before James steals in after him. His hair is down and he looks defeated in a way that Harry cannot understand. The small smile James gives him is devoid of warmth. It is devoid of anything. It is merely a social reflex. Harry sees a descending swirl of black as James drops to his knees next to him. " Yet another glorious war hero. You know, they'll never make a monument of the victor crying over the causalities of war." There is a hint of mocking in his voice, but Harry is beyond being angered by something as simple as the tone of James' voice. Harry doesn't respond, doesn't move, the bitter tears stinging his eyes.

"Do you see them when you cry?" James asks quietly.

"Sometimes. Usually I see them when I dream," Harry replies flatly.

"I see them waking or sleeping. I see them in the mirror. All I see are scores of dead people. Michael—"

"He was a death eater. He should be in Azkaban," Harry snaps, a vestigial hatred stirring weakly in him. James smiles that dead smile again.

"He is in Azkaban. He's the bassist. He sees the dead as well. Perhaps more than you or I. He sees the people killed during the war—the ones he went to school with, the ones he was raised with, the ones he let the death eaters massacre. A Dementor couldn't make him feel any worse than he makes himself feel."

Harry is silent. The old hatred quiets, and he feels so very tired instead. He looks at the young man next to him. He knows that Baby did not come simply to tell him how Draco died. There is something else. Harry is afraid to know what. The days since Nicholas' funeral have taught Harry to fear new things. He is still not entirely sure he is capable of dealing with the old things. He remains quiet, almost dreading the moment the silent breaks. James speaks.

"Sebastian and Lucius think that I don't like money because I'm a pretentious prick who wasn't loved enough as a child. They're wrong. I don't like my money because I'm a moral pretentious prick and my family's fortune was built on blood." Curiosity stirs somewhere within Harry. He has not heard this story before.

"Your family was rich before Voldemort. It's ancient; Draco tried to show me the tree once." Baby smiles wryly. Another reflex. His eyes are distant.

"Not quite. My family is very old, but we hit a rough patch and all we had was our name, our good looks and several pieces of land with… interesting properties. So we started to sell the products of our lands to those whose motives were questionable, at best. Still, we were at barest levels for survival. Then an ambitious Hogwarts graduate approached us…" He trails off, as if the rest of his story is quite obvious.

"But your family didn't have any Death Eaters." Baby raises an eyebrow. His amazement at Harry's apparent density shows in the barely perceptible widening of his eyes. Harry wonders if he should be pleased that his statement is able to penetrate the apathy that seemed to envelop James from the moment he arrived at the party.

"No, we only supplied them with the raw materials to do their work. Can you imagine? You and I were working our fingers to the bone and trying everything we could to stop that megalomaniacal fuck and my family was stocking his pantry of really nasty things." The disdain in James' voice is so thick that Harry can feel it on his tongue. It tastes like rancid milk. He shudders.

"When did you find out?"

"My last year at Hogwarts."

"But your father made a huge donation to St. Mungo's, to the memorials." Baby chuckles. Harry finds Baby's laughter incredibly creepy, like the dry rustle of leaves—a sound you would expect to hear from the specter of Death, not a young man.

"He damn well better have, since he helped fill the hospitals and the graveyards of the great and glorious dead. I was livid when I found out. I think the argument we had over the family business gave the old man his last heart attack. Good. I never had much respect for him anyway."

The bitterness in his tone startles even Harry, who was beginning to think he had the monopoly on England's natural supply of bitter. "How old are you?" Baby looks up, his face framed by a blood red halo.

"I am 19, going on dust." Harry looks him. In the glow of the fire his skin is radiant. His eyes are large and clear. His lips compress in a solemn pout. Between his somber black clothing, his halo, and his clean features, he looks like a young cleric—a saint in mourning.

"Oddly enough, it was my family's connection to Voldemort that saved my life during the war. You've heard my voice. That is what happens when Voldemort captures you and decides that for the sake of old ties that he won't kill you, he'll just play with you for hours."

"I remember" Harry says, falling silent at the memory finding James' body near the remains of a muggle dwelling.

"_He's not dead," Draco said. The way he held James made him look like a dark Madonna cradling the broken Christ. _

"_Is that good news?" Harry asked, quietly alarmed at the decided lack of relief in Draco's voice._

"_That would depend on what they did to him," Draco replied grimly._

"_He's unconscious, at least. How—" but the rest of the question was forgotten when Harry looked at his partner's face._

_It was the first time Harry had ever seen Draco look clearly disturbed about something. The furrowed brows of the blonde boy worried Harry more than anything else would have. Draco beckoned for Harry to come closer. When he did, Draco gingerly pulled back the sheet draped shroud-like around the younger boy. _

_Harry was violently ill into some nearby bushes._

"_That's despicable," he said, drawing his sleeve across his mouth. He didn't look at Draco, didn't want to see the uncharacteristic concern on the blonde's face. Draco sighed. _

"_That's Voldemort. I checked his throat."_

"_And?" Harry dared to glance at Draco, who had collected himself. His face was calm, nearly stony, but he looked tired—the surfeit of death and destruction slowly wearing him down. Harry knew the same tiredness. He was not anxious for Draco's answer._

"_It looks like he screamed himself raw." The wave of cold anger that greeted this statement surprised Harry – anger at his own inability to protect those who served under him. He clenched his fist, making bloodless crescents in the not-so tender flesh of his palm. But there was no one for him to hit—not Draco and certainly not the brilliant and battered boy between them. _

"_Fucking hell. Malfoy, he's only 15. " Much to Harry's surprise, Draco smiled ruefully._

"_I know, but you forget, we're only 17 ourselves."_

The memory of Draco makes it hard for Harry to breathe.

"Is it true?" he asks. "Was Draco's death—"

"It wasn't an accident, Harry." A choked sob escapes Harry's throat. "It was an attempt on your life. He died saving you."

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"We couldn't afford to have you lose faith in the aurors. Everyone had to make absolutely sure that you thought it was an accident. The man who killed Draco was executed as soon as you left the scene. We told you that he had been sent on a scouting mission. Later we told you that he had been killed by Voldemort. In truth, he was dead before Draco had gone cold."

Harry doesn't know who to be angry with first. He just knows that he is very, very angry. Anger burns in the back of his throat and obscures his vision. "You lied to me," he says quietly. His voice shakes from suppressed emotion.

"We thought it was best at the time."

"You all lied to me."

"Yes we did. Every day for the past 3 years, we've lied to you." At least James is unapologetic. Harry doesn't know if he could handle meaningless apologies. Harry closes his eyes. He wants to punch something. He wants to hit something very hard or something to hit him very hard. He wants something, anything to eclipse the pain inside him that just seems to keep growing.

"Please leave," Harry says, his eyes shut against the growing din inside his head. A moment later the door clicks shut. Harry rises to his feet and reaches for Lucius' brandy glass.

* * *

Whew! I'm glad that's done at least. Comments, criticism, and suggestions welcome. Review!

Love,

J. Silver


	18. Drowned Sorrows will Resurface

A/N: Lots of good questions were raised in response to the last chapter. I will attempt to address them as best as I can, if not directly, then somewhere in future chapters.

Thank you so much to alwaysariyana, coriander, Lanfear1, vote-larry4prez, B Madden, lilylupin7, SlytherinRomantic, sotty-chan, Sierralia, sanzo, Purple Raveness, Sophie Malfoy, Eowyns Entity, lucius, SexayPirate, Wolven Spirits, Wolflady, Goldensong, CannonFodder, and

DecemberxMoonlight (Does Sebastian really remind you of Cruel Intentions? Actually, his appearance is based loosely on some of my favorite musicians and his actual character... I'm not entirely sure where that came from. He can be much like Lucius, Draco and Nicholas, but he has something they don't: he is actually rather nice. )

gorgeousbown eyes (Purely coincidence, actually. Though there are some things I share with the characters. For example, like Harry, I positively adored Nicholas.)

Maira (James is just flirting. His hormones seem to be the only thing to escape the war unscathed. He recognizes Harry from the things Harry said when they first met.)

super-sailor-saturn39 (Gabriel/Bates is the drummer. He was also a surgeon. He isn't described in detail because he hasn't really done or said much yet.)

AniD (a pleasure hearing from you, as always)

Angel (I think Sebastian's ability to identify Harry via empathy or Legilimency depends on what Harry is thinking/feeling when Sebastian reads him, usually by accident. For example, from empathy, Sebastian can tell that Harry is sad, but that isn't enough to identify him because sadness is a common emotion. In the instances where Sebastian does read Harry by Legilimency, he might get that Harry is thinking of Lucius or James or possibly Draco, but that doesn't identify him positively as Harry Potter either. Does that make sense?),

Mags (James recognized Harry by something he said when they first met. ),

and Xikum ( You're right. There is definitely a need for them to come together as equals, but that is complicated by fear. The most obvious fear is on Harry's part, but I'm sure there's fear on Lucius' side as well. Feel free to email or IM me if you'd like to discuss the matter further.)

* * *

Harry is quite drunk. He has attempted to drown his sorrows only to discover that his sorrows had learned to swim. Vaguely, as he downs his innumerable glass of brandy, he wonders how on earth that happened. He used to be so good at being numb. It was how he survived being the Boy Who Lived, the Boy Who Fought, the Boy Who Ran. Now, as he sat in Lucius' favorite chair, his sorrows seemed to overwhelm him even as he struggled somewhat uselessly to beat them back. 

_Don't think about it. Draco's dead. New information doesn't change anything. He's still dead. They're all still dead._ That was the bottom line wasn't it? No matter what Harry thought happened, the end result was the same. Draco was dead. Harry knew it with an uncomfortable finality. He had performed the rites himself, rinsing the body and performing the charms that would allow Draco's body and spirit to rest. He had personally delivered Draco's body to Lucius. He had attended Draco's funeral.

Before those memories can blossom inside his mind's eye, Harry takes a swig of brandy. The burn cuts through the hazy images in Harry's head, chasing them away for the moment. He closes his eyes, ignoring the pressure building behind them. He refuses to cry. Crying never gives him anything but a headache.

"That's my glass, Mr. Scryer." Harry opens his eyes. He glances over his shoulder to see Lucius shutting the door to the study, still wearing his dress robes. Harry closes his eyes again.

"I didn't think you'd mind," he says. His voice sounds beyond tired, even to his own ears.

"Oh, I don't, but I'd like my chair, if you don't mind." He opens his eyes again to see Lucius standing before him. Harry puts down the glass a bit sloppily and rises to his feet. He stumbles almost immediately. Lucius catches him, clucking. "Tsk. We are a bit of a mess, aren't we?" Harry says nothing, just leans against Lucius' chest. He tilts his head back to look at Lucius. In a fit of alcohol-induced boldness, he brings his hand to Lucius' face, his fingertips ghosting over the blond man's cheek, along the curve of his jaw, over his lips.

"Magnificent," Harry whispers to himself. "But then, it runs in the family, on all sides, apparently." Lucius says nothing, merely gazes back at Harry, who suddenly takes in the expression on Lucius' face, the set of his mouth. Lucius looks as he did the day of Nicholas' funeral—the same weariness, the same quiet sadness.

"You're hurt," Harry says. "That's my fault." The corners of Lucius mouth quirk.

"In part, yes. However I'm no more hurt than you are, I expect," he says, glancing at the glass on the table.

"No, I suppose not," Harry replies, grimacing in anticipation of the hangover that would visit him in the morning. In retrospect, drinking that much had been a stupid thing to do, but to be honest, Harry had known that it was a stupid thing before he had started.

"I have a theory, Mr. Scryer, if you'd like to hear it." Harry removes himself from Lucius' arms and leans against the fireplace, bracing himself physically as well as mentally for Lucius' theory.

"Let's hear it," he says. He hears Lucius settle into the chair behind him.

Harry has a mental flash of Lucius enthroned in his chair, silver eyes narrowed in thought and calculation as they always were when Lucius reached his checkmate moment, his fingertips pressed together as he waited for the precise moment to strike. That is the Lucius that Harry is familiar with: the shrewd bargainer, the master manipulator, who could engineer a moment right down to the shallow breath Harry takes as his shoulders tense in anticipation. The image is so vivid that Harry glances over his shoulder to assure himself that it is only a product of his imagination. Product of imagination or no, Harry simply knows Lucius too well. The older man looks exactly as Harry pictured him. Harry shudders, turning back to the fire. He waits for Lucius to begin.

"The Lestranges killed someone very dear to you, possibly a parent. Motivated by revenge, you joined the war. During the war, you met my son. You loved my son and that his death was devastating to you. Perhaps you blamed yourself for his death, but were able to console yourself with the thought that it was an accident, that at least Draco didn't know it was coming. I think that's why the knowledge that it was a deliberate action on Draco's part that ended his life was so upsetting, especially since it was news you could hardly expect to hear at a party." Harry is grateful that the fireplace is holding him up. He sighs deeply, straightening his shoulders.

"It is a good theory, " he acknowledges. He turns slowly to face Lucius. "However, Draco and I were never lovers," he says with a smirk he definitely does not feel. Lucius is unfazed.

"That was not part of my theory. Draco bonded only over blood. It was a hang-up of his, I guess you could say."

"Perhaps that was your fault," Harry says, unable to keep all the blame out of his voice. Lucius shrugged.

"Perhaps it was. My wife and I stressed the importance of lineage."

"Of blood."

"There is ancient magic in blood. It is a powerful binding force. You cannot escape it," Lucius says a little sadly. Harry flexes his hand thoughtfully. "Watch me," he murmurs, low enough so that Lucius cannot hear him above the crackle of the fire.

"Did you love Draco?" Lucius asks, pushing the half-empty brandy glass across the tabletop. It is a nervous gesture, very unlike Lucius. Harry's eyes narrow.

"Why are you so keen to know?"

"It is an amusing thought," Lucius admits. Harry snorts.

"Thank you. I was just starting to forget what a bastard you could be." There is glint almost like amusement in Lucius' eyes.

"You misunderstand. The thought is only amusing because it brings me pleasure." Harry raises an eyebrow in Lucius' general direction. Lucius answers with an eyebrow raise of his own. "It's nice to think that someone was in love with my son," he says, by way of explanation.

"He deserved it," Harry replies, grudgingly. He grips the mantle tighter, feeling a bit lightheaded.

"Not many would agree," Lucius says.

"Not many knew him well," Harry says, shaking his head as he tried to collect himself.

The room gives a rather nasty lurch. Harry's legs crumple under him. Lucius, evidently expecting something like this, catches him. "May I offer you a chair, Mr. Scryer?"

"I don't want a chair," Harry mumbles, feeling a flush rise in his cheeks as he realizes just how close to Lucius he is. It pushes through the remains of anger and grief, through the distorted haze of drunkenness. He is extremely discomfited, the heat from the fire, from the alcohol in his blood, from the blush spreading across his face, and emanating from Lucius' body combining to make him extremely hot and bothered in ways that he is not finding pleasant at all.

"Let me go," he says, pushing weakly at Lucius.

"Let me get you a chair."

"I don't want a chair, damn you."

Lucius chuckles. Harry is painfully aware of the sound—the velvet rumble it makes in Lucius' chest. He is discomfited to find that being this close to Lucius is exactly like he remembers—exactly as he still very vividly remembers. He pushes at Lucius again, managing to extricate an arm.

"If I let you go, you'll fall," Lucius replies, shifting Harry in his arms. The additional friction is the last thing Harry needs. The memory of the last time he was this close to Lucius comes to him so clearly that he swears he can feel Lucius' lips burning against his. He wrenches away with a moan of anguish, collapsing into the nearest chair. Lucius looks startled. "What on earth was that noise?" Lucius asks, thoroughly bewildered.

"I can't get you out of my head," Harry confesses miserably, hiding his face behind his hands.

There is a decidedly awkward moment of silence between them. Harry is half-aware of what he has said. He is also half-aware that Lucius should have made a clever reply half a second after that, but there is nothing. Harry looks up to find Lucius regarding him intently. "Perhaps, what you need, Mr. Scryer is a bed," he suggests. Harry knows Lucius well enough by now to know that there is no trace of innuendo in the blond man's comment.

Having already proved his spectacular lack of balance, Harry is not allowed to walk the realitively small distance to Lucius' room. Or Harry's room, as it was now more properly. He is carried, despite his attempts to get away from Lucius, to clear his head. Once inside the bedroom, Lucius helps Harry remove his shoes, his glasses and the dress robes James fought tooth and nail to put on Harry earlier in the evening. Harry fights to gain control of himself, rubbing his temples. Lucius hands Harry a glass. "What is it?" Harry asks, more out of curiosity than suspicion.

"Water mostly. It will prevent the monstrous hangover you're due for and help you sleep." Harry takes the glass. "Dreamlessly," Lucius adds as an afterthought. The look on Harry's face is grim but appreciative. He downs the contents of the glass. It is cool and soothing where the brandy burned away the worst of his anger.

"Thank you," he says. Lucius nods slightly in acknowledgement. He takes the glass back from Harry, pushing Harry gently back among the pillows.

The moment Harry's head hits the pillow, a great shudder goes through his body and with the sudden release of tension comes the tears. He is inwardly appalled at the way he falls apart, not surprised, but rather mortified that he has crumbled this way in front of Lucius Malfoy, of all people. However, he knows that he has been holding them in too long to be able to stop it.

To his surprise, Lucius arms wrap around him. Harry buries his face in Lucius' chest, clutching at the fabric of his robes, partially for support, partially to hide his face from the man that should have been his archenemy. It is an amazing feeling, to cry in someone else's arms. No one has ever done this for him. Crying had always been a shameful admission of vulnerability, an act endured alone and hidden whenever possible.

When the tears subside, Harry pulls away. He covers his face, wiping at it ineffectually, trying to hide the remnants of his weakness. Lucius pulls his hands away from his face gently, tilting Harry's chin up. Harry sniffles, green eyes wide. He brushes the strands of hair back from Harry's face, kissing his cheek with near-reverence. "You are so beautiful. A right pain, but beautiful." Harry gives a small, sad smile.

"I'm not who you think I am," he whispers.

"How do you know who I think you are?" Lucius whispers back.

Harry doesn't dare answer that.

"Sleep," Lucius says, rising to his feet.

"Stay," Harry asks. Grey meets watery green. Lucius nods. Harry sinks back among the pillows.

For the first time in what may have been years, Lucius prepares to sleep in his own bed.

* * *

Well, you know how it goes-- complaints, suggestions, comments, and criticisms all equally adored. Review! 

Love,

J. Silver


	19. Scarring

A/N; It's been a while, but I'm not done with this fic yet.

Thanks bunches to The Dark's Desire, kumak, deedee10, miadragonlover, Lucius Sikilmituile, cookie gestapo, Destiny Entwinements, hey, akuma-river, Dybdahl, BlackCherries, lucius, AniD, Harry Slytherinson, lunefin, JadedSecrets, lilylupin, Nataleechan, ssjmiraitrks, Ch3rryphr34k (lol. Diru, really? But Sebastian is so not Kyo! ), Sophie Malfoy, Leland, Bibayb, Mags, angel, Chocola (lol... there is no LMHP re-hab... i have made it my mission to obliterate such things. evil laughter), Lanfear1, sotty-chan, Megan13, Purple Raveness, Bezzie, sanzo, Goldensong, gorgeousbowneyes, Eowyns Entity

* * *

When he awakens, Harry is shocked to see Lucius in bed beside him. He supposes that he hadn't really expected Lucius to stay the whole night. A part of him is glad that Lucius stayed. A larger part of him is panicking about what happens when Lucius wakes up. Harry silences that part of himself for now. He's too old to be afraid of Lucius, but Lucius is the only real villain left. Perhaps he was worse than Riddle. Riddle was insane. Lucius had done unspeakable things in with the same cool detachment with which he read the morning paper. Did that make him evil? 

Harry looks at Lucius. Once again he sees Draco in Lucius' face—in the sharpness of his features, in the paleness of his skin and hair—but Lucius possesses something Draco had not, just as Draco possessed things Lucius has not. Whatever it was, it has momentarily vanished from Lucius' sleeping face. Though like Draco, even in his sleep, he looked guarded. Apparently, he had never developed Harry's occasional habit of sleeping with an eye open. He never had to; Lucius was always the hunter.

Then again, Harry's fear of Lucius has nothing to do with evil and everything to do with the way Harry's body betrays him every time Lucius is nearby. Harry refuses to give in, fighting himself doggedly every halting step he took closer to Lucius.

_You want him._

_I'll be damned before I'll sleep with Lucius Malfoy._

_You're already damned. _

_Then I'll continue to be damned before I sleep with Lucius Malfoy._

_You want him._

_He was on their side of the war._

_But he was on Draco's side, too…_

And somehow it always seemed to come back to Draco.

He sits, watching Lucius sleep, fighting a private war within himself. He had been alone too long—he knows that, but does that explain the urge he has to slide closer to Lucius, to slide under his arm and kiss him and feel the weight and warmth of Lucius' body on top of him? The urge grows strong enough to take up its own physical space and push Harry closer to Lucius, to bend his neck and press their lips together. Lucius' hand cups Harry's face tenderly and the kiss was dreamy, eerily soft and unreal. Harry kisses Lucius again and Lucius kisses him harder this time, his hand sliding down Harry's arm and pulling him closer.

His body isn't warm. It burns.

Lucius' skin against Harry's burns the way his kisses did, the way his eyes did when he looked at Harry in those days after school had ended. Harry's fingers entangle themselves in Lucius' hair. Lucius kisses him again, his tongue slipping into Harry's mouth. Harry's nails dig into Lucius shoulders, anchoring himself in some physical reality as the kiss overwhelms him. When their lips part, Lucius whispers something almost lost in Harry's mouth.

Almost.

"Harry," he whispers. Harry goes rigid. His eyes meet Lucius' own. They are wide with shock.

"What?" Harry whispers, as shocked as Lucius, who raises himself on one elbow.

"I'm sorry. I was only half-awake… and your kiss." Lucius blinks slowly. It is the only time Harry can recall seeing him amazed. The blonde raises his hand to his lips in a state of awe. "You kiss like Harry Potter."

Harry scrambles out from under Lucius, grabs his things and flees through the fireplace.

It is a testament to Lucius' hangover cure that the blur of traveling by floo powder doesn't make Harry sick all over himself. He steps out of the fireplace to come face to face with Hermione. He resists the sudden urge to duck back into the fireplace. At the moment, he considers possible discovery by Lucius the lesser evil. That is probably wise, since the look on Hermione's face is strongly reminiscent of McGonagall.

"G'morning, 'Mione," he says in what he hopes is a pleasant voice. She glares at him, which isn't entirely unexpected since he is standing in just a pair of obviously slept-in dress slacks, his lips probably swollen from kissing.

"Oh, good. I'd feel awful about giving you what for unless you were well-rested," she says coldly. Harry sighs, putting his glasses on and dropping the rest of his belongings in a heap. He is suddenly feeling strangely nostalgic for the days when he had no one to anger or hurt.

"What is it?" he says, sinking into a chair by the fireplace. If he is going to get taken to task, he might as well be comfortable.

"What is this?" she asks, dropping the Society section of the Daily Prophet in his lap. Harry glances at the headline: Hornby-Malfoy Heir Debut a Smash.

"It looks like a party." Harry says.

"Read the caption," Hermione says through gritted teeth. Harry flips the paper over. Sebastian Hornby (left) with his chaperone Jonathan S. Scryer, professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"Oh," Harry says.

There is a moment of dead silence in which Hermione simply gapes at him.

"Have you gone mad?" she demands, snatching the paper back from him.

"'Mione, don't," Harry whines.

"Don't what? Don't ask why you're accepting employment from Lucius Malfoy? Don't ask why you decided to baby-sit Nicholas' older brother? Don't ask why you've allowed yourself to play the role of glorified nanny in one of the oldest traditions the people who kept us down for years have left? Don't ask why you're suddenly chummy with war relics when you used to avoid them like the plague? What exactly am I not supposed to ask? There are so many questions that I'm not even sure where to not start!" She throws the paper down in disgust. Harry stands.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. Why does everything have to be an issue? Why does everything have to mean something? Why can't I just be accepting a job or doing a favor for an old friend?"

"Because you already have a job and Lucius Malfoy was never your friend. Sebastian wasn't your friend either and…"

"And what?" Harry prompts, livid.

"It looks bad, alright? From every angle it looks bad. As Harry Potter, it looks bad, you falling in with the old regime and working for Lucius Malfoy. As Jonathan Scryer it looks bad because you were lovers with Sebastian's brother and he and Nicholas share an uncanny resemblance."

"People who are related tend to do that," Harry replies dryly.

"Harry, please. This isn't you."

"And I suppose you're the expert on what is and isn't me?" Harry says, closing his eyes briefly.

"As your best friend, yes, I hope so."

"Since when have you been interested in being my friend?" Hermione's nostrils flare and Harry is reminded strangely of Norbert, Hagrid's former pet dragon.

"Since always, Harry James Potter, and if you don't change your tone with me, by God I will hex you blind!"

Harry felt a grudging amount of respect toward Hermione. Not many people ever had the nerve to stand up to him, especially not after he defeated Voldemort.

"I don't understand, Harry. You've changed so much."

"People do that."

"Not the way you've changed. Sometimes I feel like I'm talking to a stranger, when I get a chance to talk to you at all. Half the time I can't even find you."

"War changes people, Hermione."

"Not me and not Ron."

"Well congratulations on being the only two people in Britain thick enough to miss the horror that was Voldemort."

Harry has enough time to dodge the jinx Hermione cast at him, but only just barely. The smell of singed hair fills the room.

"We haven't changed to the point of becoming someone completely different," she says coldly, her wand still pointing at Harry. He shoots her a half-hearted glare.

"Lucky you." The bitterness in his voice is much more genuine. Hermione lowers her wand, shoving it into her pocket in a gesture that momentarily reminds him of himself ages ago. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, but not hard enough to effect any change in his expression.

"I don't understand why you can't seem to escape that family. Is it the hair? Do you just like blondes? I know it may come as a surprise, but blondes occur outside of Draco's family tree-" Harry snorts.

"It's not about the hair," he says, throwing himself back into his chair.

"It's Malfoy isn't it? You haven't been the same since Draco died. Ron and I always thought it was Lucius, but we were wrong." Harry sighs tiredly.

"Drop it, Hermione. It won't do you any good."

" Maybe it will do you good, then," she says. Harry recognized the gleam in her eyes as the self-righteous kind that he had always hated, particularly because when it appeared, she tended to have a point he didn't want to hear. " In your head, you've built up Malfoy to be some kind of saint, a martyr. I have news for you: he wasn't! He had his moments, yes, but he was by nature self-serving, cold, calculating--"

"Don't you dare!" She falters momentarily at the anger in his voice, knowing that she was treading a fine line with him. Harry doesn't believe in speaking ill of the dead, especially those that had died in service to the Order and Harry rarely can stand to speak of Draco at all, ill or otherwise. She presses on.

"Any good qualities he had were learned from you and all he's left you with are bitterness and the same brittle edge he had until he died."

"Stop it!"

This pleading has nothing to do with speaking ill of the dead. Now he is asking her to stop for his own sake because he doesn't want to hear anymore, doesn't think he can stand to hear anymore. She looks at him gripping the seat of his chair so hard his knuckles have gone white, and she sees through the glamour and the years to Harry the last time she remembers looking at him and knowing that Harry was looking back at her—the moment before Draco's coffin was lowered into the ground, when Harry was wringing his gloves in his hand so tightly his knuckles were white and the glove seams made angry red lines against his palms, threatening to draw blood, but he didn't seem feel it. She caught his eye once and when she met him outside the gates after the coffin had disappeared completely under the dirt, the Harry she knew was gone.

"You were in love with him, weren't you?" she says. There is anger in her voice—anger at herself for not knowing, at Harry for not telling her and for letting something like this be the thing that defeated him.

The accusation slams Harry squarely in the chest, leaving him breathless and unable to respond. He wants to deny it. Of course he can't. But to be forced to confront twice in less than a day the same unhappy truth he has managed to avoid for years is nearly too much for him. Hermione sees the scars of the war blazing in his eyes, across his forehead, across his soul.

"Fine, if you insist on hanging around the half-dead and the broken, go ahead. Perhaps they're fitting company for you." She makes it to the door before she turns around and addresses him for the last time. "For the first time in our lives, I feel sorry for you," she says. The door slams shut behind her.

Hermione saw the scars, but she failed to recognize that scars are among the first visible signs that a wound is healing.

* * *

My hope is that more will follow soon, but at the very least more will follow eventually. 

Love always,

J. Silver


	20. Kiss Me, Kill Me

A/N: Made my own deadline! Yay!

Thanks bunches to Nickole Riddle, Zelphie, The Dark's Desire, Shadowed-Seraph, Athena, Nelle, lilylupin7, Enivrement, Lanfear1, DestinyEntwinements, angel, luciud sikilmituile, MyFictionalAnnihilation, Gwen, kumak, sanzo, Wolflady, StarryGazer, sotty-chan, Purple Raveness, coriander, le-plume-beni, and ura-hd.

Special thanks to Ryan for constructive criticism and analysis that satisfy the increasingly obsessive workaholic in me. mwah

* * *

After Hermione leaves, Harry decides that now is an excellent time for a shower. The water is a bit too hot, but he doesn't mind. It feels good against his back and shoulders. He inhales the steam and tries to exhale the emotional excess that is working hard on choking him to death.

He stands there for a long time, until the danger of falling apart and having his second crying fit in less than twelve hours passes. As he shuts off the water, he has memories of the last time he had a shower like that. It was after he and Draco had been to the manor for dinner-- the night that Draco had told him that he could never be a decent person because he didn't know how to be a person, just a useful tool. He'd stood under the shower for an hour until the water turned cold in an attempt to evict him. He had emerged solemn and prune-like from the bath to find Draco waiting for him.

_The boy was perched on the edge of Harry's bed. His fair skin seemed to glow in the semidarkness of the room. "I upset you," he said tonelessly. Harry, clad in just a towel, could only stare at the boy. Draco looked entirely out of place amongst the Gryffindor red velvet. It occurred to Harry dimly that he had only ever seen Draco against a backdrop of green, black, or grey. Even now, his pajamas were a strange smoky color, almost black but not quite dark enough._

"_I was beginning to worry that you had drowned yourself," Draco said casually. _

"_You? Worry?" Harry echoed incredulously, tossing the towel in his hand back into the bathroom. Draco raised an eyebrow._

"_You don't think I worry about you?" he asked. Harry crossed his arms, glaring at his uninvited guest._

"_No, Malfoy. Off the battlefield, I don't think you give a damn about me." _

"_Now you're just being hurtful," Draco said. "Did I upset you as badly as all that?"_

"_What do you think?" Harry snapped. Draco steepled his fingers and looked down at them, apparently admiring the fine lines of his hands._

"_I think I said too much. I think I thought your confidence was impenetrable. I didn't think that you would care about my opinion that much. I think that perhaps I should take back what I said."_

"_Why would you do that? You never say anything you don't mean…" Harry trailed off, wondering when he had begun to accept everything Draco said as truth._

"_Potter…"_

_There was something in Draco's voice that made Harry look up. He saw something that he knew would haunt him until the day he died—Draco as a person. Not a statue, not a grim angel of death, not the antithesis of everything Harry was. Just a person. The sight shocked him so much that it took him a while to register Draco's next comment._

"_What do you think I am?"_

_Harry blinked. "Excuse me?"_

"_What do you think I am that I wouldn't lie? Or what do you think you are that I wouldn't lie to you?"_

"_I trust you not to lie to me. My life and the lives of every student here depend on you not lying to me. Is my trust misplaced?" Draco went thin-lipped, his eyes suddenly bright. Harry knew with grim satisfaction that he had struck a nerve._

"_No," he replied, so quietly the word was nearly lost in the sigh that followed. "You know I wouldn't risk losing your confidence by lying to you." His eyes flashed at Harry as he spoke. He obviously resented the need to voice this fact._

_Perhaps Harry had delayed too long in taking a bath and had been tainted by the Malfoys. Perhaps his inner Slytherin was just maturing as he aged. Regardless, his next action was deliberately cruel. "But why? You said it yourself, what am I to you that you wouldn't lie to me?" he asked. _

_Draco glared at him for a moment, then chuckled. "Oh, Potter, for someone who is supposed to be one of the good guys, you are such a bastard." _

"_So are you, " Harry replied levelly._

"_Am I one of the good guys?" Draco asked, seemingly amused by such a thought._

"_You're not answering my question," Harry said. A small, secretive smile played across Draco's lips._

"_So I'm not."_

"_Answer my question, Malfoy," Harry prompted, not amused. Draco raised an eyebrow, eyeing Harry's towel as if to question his right to be imposing while wearing a damp towel. "Malfoy!" Draco crossed his arms, lifting his chin a bit._

"_You were the only person who thought I was sincere when I told Dumbledore that I didn't want to fight for Voldemort. You are the only person who ever had any faith in me without drawing blood first."_

_Well, Harry didn't know what to say to that. Draco looked at him evenly, waiting for a response._

"_You were the only person I could consider as an equal," Harry said, after a pause. _

_Draco looked at him blankly, then dropped his head into his hands._

" _I am too sober to have this conversation with you," he said, shaking his head._

"_What!" Harry asked._

"_I. Cannot. Talk. To. You. About. This," Draco said, enunciating for emphasis. _

"_Why not?"_

"_Because I don't want to be accountable for anything that inadvertently comes out of my mouth."_

"_Fine," Harry said. "You want alcohol? I'll get you so fucking pissed you won't remember anything about the next two days." Draco's eyes widened._

"_You want to talk that badly?" he asked suspiciously, as if no one had ever gone to any trouble for his opinion. Harry sighed. _

"_Yes. I want to talk that badly. I don't understand you. We spend hours working together. You are the first and last person that I see every day and I haven't a clue what you really think, what you want, what you like." Harry threw his hands up. "You're so god-damned mysterious!"_

_Draco fell backwards onto Harry's bed, shaking convulsively. Harry had rushed over to him and rolled him over before he realized that Draco was laughing—the same way he had laughed the morning they'd woken up in the same bed--the way he always laughed when Harry did something that he found unexpectedly and thoroughly amusing. He sobered when he saw Harry standing over him. They stared at each other. Harry noted absently that Draco's hair was mussed. His pajamas were silk. Harry could feel it against his bare skin. He thought it was extravagant, but appropriate for Draco, who wore them as nonchalantly as Harry might wear the flannel pajamas he had yet to put on. Draco blinked. It was a languid gesture, his delicate lashes creating soft shadows against his skin._

_The idea that there was anything soft or delicate about Draco was an intriguing one that had never occurred to Harry before. "You're staring at me," Draco said quietly._

"_And you're staring at me," Harry replied. "Is this ok?" Draco nodded ever so slightly. There was a faint touch of color to Draco's lips and bluish tint to his eyelids, but otherwise, his skin was unmarred. It was surreal. Harry was not much of a judge in regards to looks, but he heard a lot of girls giggling about Malfoy and Harry enjoyed looking at him. It was somehow reassuring, and having permission to do so now was oddly satisfying._

_Hesitantly, Draco raised his hand to Harry's face. He hesitated near Harry's forehead. Harry nodded, moving his face into Draco's hand. Draco pushed back Harry's hair, his fingers finding and tracing Harry's scar. Harry shuddered, as much from cold as from the totally unfamiliar sensation of another's touch. Draco frowned._

"_Merlin, Potter, you're still wearing that damn towel. Take it off." Harry chuckled. _

"_I didn't know you thought of me that way," he teased._

_Then Draco did something Harry never thought he'd live to see: Draco blushed._

"_I didn't mean it that way. It'd just be embarrassing if we lost the war because you caught pneumonia because you were prancing around in a bath towel all night," he explained hastily._

"_I didn't plan on wearing the towel **all** night," Harry said. Draco became visibly flustered. "But I'll change, if you promise not to move—and you don't look," he added._

"_But that requires moving," Draco said. Harry shrugged. _

"_So look then." _

_It was too dark for Draco to see much. But Harry was surprised to find that he wasn't really concerned about it. He pulled on the lower half of his pajamas quickly and returned to find that Draco had upheld his end of the bargain. _

"_You're half-dressed," Draco said disapprovingly._

"_Then I leave it up to you to make sure that I don't catch pneumonia," Harry replied. Draco frowned again._

"_You're entirely too flippant about this."_

"_I suppose you think I should be more serious about being half-naked and on top of you?"_

_For the smallest instant, a look of fear crossed the blonde's face. "What do you want from me?" Harry tried to give the question serious thought, but halfway through, he decided to hell with it and kissed the blond boy. Draco responded immediately, kissing Harry as if he had been waiting for it, his body arching against Harry's, the silk of his pajamas oddly cool even though Harry could feel the heat of his body. If Harry had ever imagined what it would be like to kiss Draco, it would have been like this-- a sudden breach in Malfoy's infamous composure, hot and sudden and almost too much for most people to take. _

_When they parted, both boys were breathless. Draco raised an eyebrow. "Is that a towel in your pants, Potter, or are you just glad to see me?" Harry grinned at how quickly the other boy recovered, but he knew, now, what lay behind that often impossibly cool façade._

Harry hasn't thought about that in ages. The memory is bittersweet now, more bitter than sweet. He throws aside the towel with which he has been drying his hair in disgust. That's when he realizes that he's not alone. Lucius Malfoy is standing in front of his fireplace, his back to Harry. Harry gets half-dressed before he finally speaks.

"Why are you here?" he asks. It comes out harsher than he had intended. He's not sure that he cares.

"I don't know," Lucius admits, turning around. He looks tired, as if hours had passed between their kiss and now.

"Figure it out or I will ask you to leave," Harry snaps. His eyes are brilliant with anger.

"Why are you angry with me?" he asks. Harry clenches and unclenches his fists.

"I'm not." That's true. It's not Lucius' fault that Harry completely lost his head and did something that he knew he shouldn't have done.

"Then why do I get the impression that you are?" Lucius asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm angry with myself," Harry replies.

"For kissing me?"

"For forgetting the reasons why I shouldn't have kissed you," Harry corrects.

"What, may I ask, are those?" Lucius says. Harry knows Lucius well enough to recognize the signs that Lucius is bracing himself for what Harry says next.

"You've hurt people." Harry winces when he says it. His voice sounds small, his answer inadequate. Harry's answer wasn't what Lucius was expecting. He seems to wilt, his shoulders dropping a little.

"We've had this discussion before," he says, his voice laced with tiredness.

"Did we?" Harry asks, running a hand through his hair.

"You know my record," Lucius says simply.

"Do I?" Harry asks.

"You tell me," comes the reply.

Harry takes a breath and begins to recite: "Lucius Malfoy. Number of unforgivable curses: unknown. Number of deaths caused: estimated at 30. Number of deaths that can be proven: 5. Attempted to use a horcrux of Voldemort's to open the chamber of secrets. Pardoned before he could be brought to trial by Minister Ron Weasley at the personal request of Harry Potter." That last part isn't in Malfoy's file. Harry has seen the official file in the records of the Ministry. No one would dare connect Harry Potter to something like Lucius Malfoy, infamous Death Eater, walking free. Instead, Ron had made something up about Lucius contributing valuable information to the search for and persecution of other Death Eaters.

"You've memorized my record," Lucius says, raising an eyebrow. Harry shrugs.

"So?" he asks.

"Only aurors are required to memorize the files of known death eaters."

"Maybe I just wanted to." Because Harry has learned that Death Eaters don't stop being Death Eaters. They just go underground. It was best to know the enemy and their strategy before he ended up flat on his back and staring at the sky, but seeing nothing.

"That's obsessive of you," Lucius notes. _You have no idea_, Harry thinks. _This is my life. This will always be my life: counting the dead, recalling war records on everyone I encounter. This is my life._

"Maybe," is what he says.

"You know my record, yet you've stayed in my home and slept in my bed with me right beside you."

"So?" Harry says, aware of the irrationality himself.

"Either you're an idiot with a death wish or you think there's more to me than my record."

"I don't care if there's more to you than your record," Harry insists. It's a lie. Lucius allows himself a small smirk—the all-knowing kind that Harry hates.

"So you're an idiot with a death wish," he says. Harry sighs, suddenly bone-tired from the stress of the past day and a half.

"I'm an idiot for thinking for even a moment that maybe we could be something more than acquaintances."

There's a moment of silence in which Lucius digests this information. "Does it matter what I think about all this?" he asks quietly. Harry shakes his head. "I thought so. You will still serve as Sebastian's chaperone." Only the slightest change in tone indicates that this is a question. Harry nods. "Good." There is another moment of silence. "Will this make things awkward between us?" Harry nods again, forgetting where he has placed his voice. "You are still welcome to sleep at the manor whenever you feel the need."

"Thank you." Harry finds his voice at last, somewhere in the back of his throat. The look on Lucius' face indicates that Lucius hardly thinks that the matter is worth thanking him over. He is remotely cool and Harry can feel the chill distinctly.

"When you think we can be more than acquaintances, you know were to find me," he says. His voice reveals nothing. Harry is unreasonably disheartened and he can only nod again. Lucius turns to leave, hesitates and then turns back to Harry.

He leans forward. His hand caresses Harry's cheek. Harry closes his eyes, and when Lucius doesn't move further, he does, closing the space between them and finding Lucius' lips. Lucius doesn't respond for a moment. Then he moves and his arms are around Harry and his hands are in Harry's hair. The Lucius who was so cool and composed a moment ago is gone and replaced by someone Harry can only find when they're alone and the masks come off. The first kiss melts into another, and another.

"You want me," Lucius says, kissing Harry again. Harry breaks the kiss, stepping back.

"Yes," he says, looking at the fire, at the floor, anywhere but Lucius.

"Then why?" Harry's eyes meet Lucius'.

"I can't love you," he says.

He says it softly, but the answer is brutal nonetheless. Lucius' face goes blank, the way it does when emotion threatens to overwhelm him. He closes his eyes and nods. Harry thinks he's going to be sick as he watches Lucius turn away. Lucius pulls a card from his robes and into the fireplace. Without a backward glance, he steps through, disappearing from sight.

Feeling suddenly cold, Harry wraps his arms around himself and cries.

* * *

So that was a bit of a bummer, ne? Comments and criticism welcome. Review!

Love,

J. Silver

P.S. Happy New Year!


	21. The Importance of Playing Cricket

A/N: Apologies for the delay. I must have written like 4 different chapters trying to figure out where to go next… Oy.

Thank you mmjay, Kerttu, Silverhair Theory, uranium, Katsy15, shadow-inu14, gaija, Penguin Steps, Lady Silverhawk, deedee10, Xelena, Shinigami Clara, rachel, OrioonLuckyStar, akuma-river, JayHun, Vampyre Moon, Nataleechan, FluffySmarts, Clad Langouste, louey31, ura-hd, CatWithBall, Shadowed-Seraph, Laughing Cat, spinnerofdark, Lanfear1, kumak, sotty-chan, miadragonlover, lucius sikilmituile, Yukkienoloveless, Enivrement, Goldensong, Purple Raveness, DarkGwen, Ch3rryphr34k, Zelphie, coriander, lovi, SlytherinRomantic, MyFictionalAnnihilation, tessa3, The Dark's Desire, DestinyEntwinements, and xikum.

Whew! Thanks, really, for your continued interest and support and wonderful reviews.

* * *

It is late when Harry returns to his rooms at Hogwarts from a desperately needed drinking session with James, who had chuckled his dry, rustling laugh, and given Harry a sympathetic look. Sebastian had cornered them momentarily, but after getting a better look at Harry, he too, shot Harry a sympathetic look and then went to find Shadow. 

Harry has company. "Lucius," he says, momentarily surprised.

"I'm not leaving," Lucius says coolly. "Not until you've heard me out. Until now, I've been very considerate and played the game by your rules."

"This isn't a game," Harry protests. Lucius smiles. It's cold and makes Harry shiver despite the fact that he has just walked through fire.

"But you always liked our games and now you're denying me the privilege of play. That's not cricket, Harry."

Harry's breath catches in his throat. He is frozen by a fear he has never known before. It feels like hours before he can speak, hours of Lucius wearing that cold, cold smile.

"What did you call me?" he says at last. The cold smile stays in place.

"I called you by your name, Harry." Harry sits down quickly, or rather his knees give way and he finds a chair before he hits the ground. He takes a deep breath.

"How long have you known?"

"I had hoped. Admittedly, brandy and a strong resemblance fueled most of my hope. The kiss could've been wishful thinking—I could've been connecting the kiss of Jonathan Scryer to that of Harry Potter because I wanted them both and both were determined to elude me. But I knew this afternoon when my request for a copy of my war crimes was filled. Under the new Ministry laws, one can request that sort of information on any known Death Eater. Do you know what I found, Harry?"

"I know what you didn't find," Harry says, cursing himself wholeheartedly.

"Of course you do."

"You didn't find my name in your file." Lucius smiles again. Harry wishes he wouldn't. That smile alone is hell.

"You know, I think you wanted to be caught, Harry. There were so many times that you should've given it away."

"I was rather hoping that you were too grief-stricken to notice."

"I was. I was in a daze for a long time, but there's nothing like the prospect of a good fight to wake me up again."

"You should've been a lawyer," Harry mutters.

"If I had been born a Muggle, perhaps I would've been, but that's neither here nor there and I don't want to talk about that. I want to talk about you and me and what lies ahead."

Harry doesn't like Lucius' apparent enthusiasm. It's forced and it doesn't quite fit with his tone of voice. "What do you mean?" Harry asks, half-afraid of the answer.

"Well, this has interesting implications for us. The terms of the agreement were that I had to find you, but you found me first. You came to me willingly."

"I did not," Harry says.

"Ah, but you did. You knew who I was and yet you didn't stay away."

"I—" Harry stops. He had come back to Lucius, after Nicholas funeral. He had kept coming back to Lucius time and time again even though common sense and his inability to keep his lips to himself should've told him to do otherwise.

"You knew who I was the whole damn time. You knew exactly who I was and what I had done and you knew that you were exposing yourself to my mercy, but you willingly came back anyway."

"I was stupid."

"You are many things, but stupid isn't one of them. You don't always think about things consciously, but I've never known you to be without a reason for doing something." Lucius is angry. Harry can feel it. There is something more to it though, something that made his voice a little deeper, his eyes a little more bright. Was that pain?

Harry doesn't know what to say. He knows this is the part where he gives a really good explanation for the inexplicable act of staying close to a man with whom he repeatedly said he didn't want to be involved. This is the part where he says something that would redeem him. He has nothing. For some reason that makes him feel something like despair.

"Why did you do it?" Lucius asks. Asking pains him. He doesn't want to have to ask, but he honestly doesn't know. Harry sighs, wondering how to explain that he hadn't been deliberately toying with Lucius.

"I was confused and you were nice to me. You were charming to Scryer the way you never were to me."

"You say that like you would have trusted charm from me."

"I wouldn't have; you're right. It was nice to see you differently-- to pretend that the past could be forgotten, but it's time to stop pretending."

"So that's it? You spared me Azkaban so that you could torture me with my past at your own convenience? Why is the past so important to you? Why can't you judge me by what I've done since then, for what I've tried to do since the war claimed what I loved the most? There's no such thing as atonement for you. You have no forgiveness. There's no justice here."

"Justice? The finest man I ever knew is dead at the hands of the lunatic you served."

"And did this man spring out of the earth like Adam? He was my son. He had my blood. Who do you think taught him how to be strong? Who do you think taught him that beliefs sometimes require action to defend them? Who do you think taught him that certain people you give of yourself to protect because your own life would be empty without them? And now, having taught him all of that, I'm left here, not with the son I gave my life to Voldemort to protect, but to the one that my son loved enough to die to protect.

"And you think you're better than all of that somehow. You think that because you killed a maniac and then ran away and spent three years denying yourself and what you owe me and what you owed my son—that that somehow puts you in a position above me, occasionally condescending to mete out crumbs of forgiveness."

Harry is breathless. Lucius' words bruise him, and the only way he survives the whole speech is by reminding himself that he has to. He has earned every pain that accompanies Lucius' outburst. He thinks he should be in tears by the end of it, but he just feels deadened somehow.

"What do I owe you?" he asks, his voice slipping back into tonelessness.

"You know what you owe me," Lucius says quietly. He chucks a small black box at Harry, who catches it against his stomach. Gingerly, he opens it. A silver serpent glistens in the firelight.

_The firelight cast eerie shadows about the Slytherin common room. Harry supposed that the shadows were the same shadows that had always been there and they only seemed eerie because they alone remained long after its inhabitants had gone—deserted to Voldemort or assimilated into other houses in an effort to unite the four houses._

_Except for Draco._

_He sat on the same sofa as always, stretched out in the blood-absorbing black pants and collared shirt that he nearly jokingly called his "work clothes." His eyes were closed, but he looked surprisingly cool and unruffled. Trust Draco to make a war look easy. Harry's eyes ran over Draco's body quickly, wondering how many people had been tempted by the sight of Draco splayed out on that sofa, wondering if he himself was tempted or just curious about his partner. If he looked carefully, he could see the signs of war on Draco. The blonde's hair was in need of a trim, his hands were not quite so perfectly manicured and the first few buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned. Others might think they were purposely left undone, but Harry knew that Draco's obsessive nature wouldn't allow it._

_Unless the boy was really fucking tired._

"_Merlin, Potter. Take a bloody picture. It will last longer," Draco drawled, not opening his eyes._

"_Why would I want a picture of your tacky common room, Malfoy? It's devoid not only of taste, but Christmas cheer. Did the house elves skip you over?" Draco smiled a little, his eyes still closed._

"_You're beginning to sound like me, Potter. That's unhealthy." Harry supposed it was. "The house elves decided that trying to bring me Christmas cheer would be hazardous to their health." Harry snorted._

"_What is it with your family and abusing house elves?" Draco shrugged._

"_We need to take out our sexual frustration somehow," he replied. Harry couldn't tell if Draco was serious. Like father, like son. He looked at Draco again, but this time silver greeted green. "No reply?" the blond boy asked, the smile threatening to spread across his face. Harry shrugged._

"_I am proud to say that I know nothing about the sexual history of your family," he said. _

_That was a bit of a lie actually. Harry knew that Draco was a virgin, prescribing to a strange sort of sexuality that Harry could only describe as a destructive form of narcissism, or perhaps just a total lack of interest in others. Draco beckoned with a languid, elegant movement of his hand._

"_Come here," he said, his tiredness lowering his voice the slightest bit. Harry wasn't expecting the hitch in his breathing that accompanied Draco's statement. He shook it off with a small nod._

"_What? Without dinner first? You're a cheap date, Malfoy," he teased. Draco gave a sigh that Harry had come to interpret as "Who did I kill in a past life to deserve you?" Harry grinned and went to the sofa, plopping down next to Draco. Draco looked at him intently. Harry tried hard not to flush under his gaze. "You look awful," Draco said at last._

"_So do you," Harry said, settling back against the sofa, thoughtfully crushing Draco's legs._

"_You lie," Draco said, not bothering to move._

"_I do," Harry replied. This answer seemed to please Draco._

_Narcissism? Some days Harry wondered._

"_I have something for you," Draco said, his hand reaching into his pants' pocket. Harry grinned._

"_Do you use that pick up line all the time?" He was finding the he enjoyed ribbing Draco about the sex life he knew Draco didn't have. It was the only thing for which the Slytherin boy didn't have an immediate response. Draco deliberately ignored him._

"_Here," he said, holding out a black velvet box. Harry opened the box and gasped. "In my family, the heir is always given this brooch. It is a symbol of the wealth and power he will inherit. I've given up my birthright by joining against my father, but this fight—the upcoming victory—is your birthright."_

_Harry blinks._

_It was the most meaningful present he could ever remember receiving. The bejeweled silver serpent inside was exquisite, though Harry knew he'd never wear it. Draco seemed to know his thoughts. "It's not merely decorative. It's charmed. I know that you have a dozen of them, but this brooch has about three dozen more. We have a hard campaign coming up and---"_

"_I'll wear it," Harry said, sparing Draco, what Harry knew must have been the painful process of admitting that he cared. "With pleasure," he added. Draco looked into the fire. Harry did him the favor of attributing the faint pink across his cheeks to the heat of the flame._

"You owe me a life, Harry," Lucius says while Harry contemplates the serpent.

"I owe you nothing. You're free, aren't you?"

"You know better than that. I'll accept my freedom as the debt you owed me for saving your life and the life of your friends, but Draco's life is another matter."

"Do you think I wanted him to die?" Harry snaps. When Lucius speaks again, his tone is less hard.

"No, but he died for you nonetheless and you and I have nothing—except each other."

"You're crazy," Harry says, slumping back into his chair. Lucius ignores this.

"By giving you this brooch, Draco named you his successor. By accepting this brooch, you agreed to all that entails."

"What is that?"

"It means that you're family. I don't know for sure if Draco intended you to be his brother or if he would have asked for something more intimate like marriage."

"What do you intend?"

Lucius sneers. It's an ugly gesture, but Harry doesn't fault him for it. If he could hide behind a sneer, he would. "Does it matter? You don't want anything to do with me. What you feel for me is purely animalistic and I certainly wouldn't want you to debase yourself by feeling anything more than that." Harry shoots a glare at Lucius, furious at him for taking a cheap shot.

"You said I owed you."

"So you do, but I want a companion, Mr. Potter, not a captive audience."

"What are you going to do now?"

"There's nothing left for me to do, is there? Except to die, of course."

Harry hands Lucius the box. Lucius refuses it with a shake of his head. "Keep it," he says. "You'll need it to prove that you're the intended Malfoy heir."

Harry opens the box and continues to study the serpent long after Lucius leaves him.

* * *

Review ! Meanwhile, I'll do my best to update in a timely fashion. 

love,

J. Silver


	22. Between Friends

A/N: Hello! Apologies for the delay. I must have tried half a dozen different takes on this chapter and this is the one that feels the most comfortable to me.

Much love and appreciation to everyone who loves this fic.

Thanks ever so much to Madd Girl, anaknisatanas, porcupineapple, Falcon-Jade-Darkness, Helena (I'm trying, honestly, but Harry and Lucius are quite determined to go on being miserable without one another.), Centrau guardian, Kittendragon, Sethian, IcyTanya, Sarrah, Imiryoku, Bobbi, Lady Pheonix Ice Angel, KurumaIsFine, sarcastic, nataleechan ( :smiles and waves: ), Twilight Magician24, celestialuna, Novocaine, TanyaPotter, Xelena, MissJinny, Lady-LunaPotter, Lanfear (who got me addicted to Lightning on the Wave right before my finals...), Clad Longouste, mmjay (I'm trying, but so many possibilities take time to work through.), odducky (Makes sense to me!), louey31, PurpleRaveness, akuma-river, Deadmen's Bells (Shadow's name is mentioned in this chapter, in fact.), silver4fire, angel (of course, I'm back; this story isn't finished yet!), spinnerofdark, Echo, sanzo, Zelphie, Mirror, Sabia, Muthru, Kristin, thuyhy-thuyhy, Yukkienoloveless, Megan13, Penguin Steps, Fiery Pheonix (Harry starts to realize he loves Lucius when Harry stops being a stubborn idiot... whenever that is.), alliekatgal, ura-hd, and OrionLuckyStar ( I try to update quickly, really.)

* * *

Harry wishes that he could just die.

Then, at least, he wouldn't feel so miserable. He had closed The Three Broomsticks and made his way to the Hog's Head Inn, where he is about to be thrown out, or picked up by some of the seedier patrons who look at him and see only a pretty victim. Harry has fended off six so far, but a seventh resolutely remains, and Harry suspects that he has slipped something into Harry's drink… or what had been Harry's drink three glasses ago.

The dawn after Lucius left had brought no consolation for Harry, who had spent the night seeing the faces of Draco, Lucius and Nicholas in his mind's eye. Harry had worn sunglasses to class, preferring that his students think he partied too hard on the weekend than for them to see the shadows under his bloodshot eyes.

The crystal ball at his desk had played odd tricks on him all day, showing him bits of his past instead of the future:

_A shroud bound in red, dangling charms that to protect the body and prevent its use in necromancy._

_Harry washing the body of a blonde boy and performing the rites of burial. His hands shake as he makes the necessary wand movements, but his voice is more sure than he would have thought and the incantations are strong and clear._

_That night after he delivered the body to Lucius, which Harry had spends locking up the pain behind fierce barriers of denial, weeding out the withered blossoms of first love and burying them beneath duty and grief._

_The funeral that kills in Harry the spark of something to hope for, the promise of a future Harry had not even known he had wanted until it was taken from him._

_The dried and yellowed petals of a rose taken from a coffin in which more than one person's dreams were buried._

Harry weighs the benefits of fighting to stay coherent versus giving into whatever was put in his drink. If he gave in, then his wish for death might just be granted… or he might wake up in an alley in Hogsmeade wondering where his clothes were. Either way, he is running out of time, as the edges of his vision are beginning to blur and his limbs are beginning to feel heavy.

The seedy man moves from his chair and Harry can feel himself being manhandled to his feet. "Oy!" someone shouts and then there is the sound of flesh hitting flesh and a loud thud. Harry is left to stand on his own, and the world lurches in the peculiar way it always does when Harry tries to drink himself sick. He is steadied by a different pair of hands, a much gentler pair, and that is all that he has time to register before blackness overwhelms him.

It is still dark outside when Harry wakes in his own bed to find Ron staring at him with nothing but concern.

"Harry?" There is fear and relief in Ron's voice.

Bits and pieces of the night surface in Harry's mind and Harry wants to bury his head in his pillows and smother himself to death rather than face whatever Ron has to say.

"Harry are you alright?"

"What are you doing here?" Harry asks, shifting in bed. That's when he realizes he has no clothing on. "What happened?" Harry panics, for a moment thinking that he had compounded the weekend's stupidity with another stupid mistake. Ron smiles at him softly.

"Relax. I came looking for you to apologize for Hermione being a git. Whatever you drank made you sick all over yourself. So I changed you into your pajamas, but then you were sick all over them too, and I couldn't find anything else to put on you after that."

"Then what happened?"

"Then I took advantage of your vulnerable state and had my wicked way with you—repeatedly. Honestly Harry, what is the matter with you? Have I ever given you any reason to think I'm pervy enough to rape my best friend while he's in a drug-induced sleep?" Ron asks, sounding more hurt than anything.

"Sorry," Harry mumbles. "I guess that one way or another, I just expected last night to end badly."

"What was that all about? I didn't know you drank. And what did you mean that you expected last night to end badly? Harry, did you know that man had drugged you?"

"Forget it, " Harry mutters, burying his face into the pillow. Ron grabs him by the shoulder and forces him to turn.

" I will not forgot it, especially not if you tell me that you put yourself in danger deliberately. That man could have robbed you, he could've raped you, and he could've killed you, and all you have to say is forget it?"

"I had an argument with Lucius." Ron raises an eyebrow, one that said "And I didn't know you and Lucius Malfoy were on first name basis, either."

"Go on."

So Harry explains in halting words and without making eye contact once, the story of how he came to be arguing with Lucius. At the end of his story, there is an awkward silence, in which Harry waits for Ron to begin cursing and spluttering and making condemnations and cursing some more before going red in the face and silent, signaling the end of his communication with Harry during this lifetime.

He does not expect Ron to hold him tightly and almost desperately. Harry finds himself hugging Ron back just as tightly and making horrible sounds that he is vaguely aware are the sobs he has been fighting back since Lucius left him.

"You are such idiot, mate," Ron says. "What made you think that you had to do this alone, that you couldn't tell us straight out?"

"Because you and your wife were busy jumping to conclusions and treating me like dirt."

"One, you never said anything! You just went all moody and tight-lipped and then you vanished without ever explaining anything. Two, don't tell anyone, but sometimes, Hermione is really quite dense. She forgets that feelings don't follow logic and that people bruise easily."

A sly look suddenly crosses Ron's face, one that reminds Harry of Fred and George.

"Three, I always thought that Draco loved you… and that maybe you did love him, but I kind of thought that you were hot for Lucius."

"I was not!" Harry insists, his face turning bright red. Ron quirks an eyebrow.

"Harry, you are attracted to blondes—arrogant, prick-bastard blondes. In that department, you can't get more top of the line than Lucius Malfoy."

"How very true," says a voice from the fireplace. Harry turns to see Shadow stepping out of the fireplace.

"Evan," Harry says, trying to steady his voice. He is grateful that the bed is draped in shadows, hiding his vulnerable state for the moment, at least. The corners of Shadow's mouth quirk at the use of his given name. Harry doubts anyone has called him by it in ages. Shadow's family is usually referred to by their surname, with the head and the heir known as The Elder and The Younger. Only amongst family or very close friends did they allow their first names to be used.

"Rosier," Ron says with a curt nod.

"The only," Shadow says with a bow. "Minister."

"What do you want?" Ron's voice is guarded, but not hostile.

"I came to get Harry. Something has happened," Shadow replies with unnatural calm.

"What?" Shadow only looked grave, his brown eyes deepening to a fathomless shade of black in the firelight. Harry knows that look and it makes his stomach turn. He is out of bed in a minute, nakedness forgotten. Shadow turns on his heel and focuses on the fireplace, while Ron is caught halfway between being useful and being in the way.

"What are you doing?" Ron says, blocking Harry's way to his closet, but handing him a pair of pants.

"I'm going with Rosier," Harry says, zipping up his pants and reaching for a shoe. Ron hands him the other.

"May I remind you that it was only hours ago that you were passed out under the influence of enough alcohol to send a giant under the table and Merlin only knows what?"

"Yes, you may," Harry says, lacing up the second shoe and reaching for the shirt Ron had summoned from some corner of Harry's room.

"Then may I also remind you that you are in no shape to go anywhere but back to bed?" Harry pulls the shirt over his head and places his glasses somewhat crookedly on his nose.

"Ron, I'm going," he says, meeting Ron's gaze squarely. Ron's gaze doesn't falter as he reaches out to straighten Harry's glasses.

"Fine, but I'm coming with you."

"What's the matter, Minister? Don't trust me?" Shadow asks lightly. Ron doesn't even spare him a frown as he gathers his things.

"This has nothing to do with you, Rosier. This has to do with me not trusting Harry not to be stupid and to know his limitations."

"Ron, this has nothing to do with you," Harry says, thinking that where he and Shadow would be going, Ron would hardly be welcome. Ron does spare a frown for Harry.

"Harry, I love you like a brother. As such, if you ever say those words to me again, I will knock you flat, so help me." Harry gapes at Ron. Ron smiles and shrugs a bit.

From the fireplace, Shadow chuckles. "Shall we, gentlemen?"

* * *

More soon, hopefully. Meanwhile, please be a dear and review! 

With love, as always,

J. Silver


	23. Heartsease

A/N: Apologies for the long wait. Something was missing and I couldn't figure out what. Then I saw Haruno Sumire as Der Tod in _Elisabeth_ and somehow, I was inspired.

My deep appreciation to all those who continue to love this fic.

Thanks giraffe1, Kazama Hasaki, Calimora, Morgaine Malfoy, gizachick, Reinamariposa, Vampyre Moon, Ambwardo, Penguin Steps, deedee10, ravenmorrigan, zainx, applesauce-n-soysauce, nataleechan, hpdragonlover, debbie, Jonquina, spinnerofdark, Cut-Wrist Kate, lilylupin7, AthenaSamantha, xikum, SuryaPrakash, Yukino-chan, Purple Raveness, diarygirl, Lirael, Novocaine, naravna, Zelphie, Jen, Laura, Kittendragon, Sierralia, MyFictionalAnnihilation, Madd Girl, Megan13, louey31, Fiery Pheonix, anitablakevampirehunter, akuma-river, Tanya Potter, angel, alliekatgirl, Ocelot12, and sotty-chan.

* * *

Harry, Shadow, and Ron floo directly to Lucius' bedroom to find that they are the last ones to arrive. James stands in the corner by a window, crossing his arms and staring darkly through the glass. The light of the full moon paints him with an eerie glow. Sebastian sits in a chair not far from James. He looks as calm as a statue of a matyred saint except for the tears that fall silently and beautifully down his face. Gabriel, his curly brown hair pulled away from his face and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, stands over the bed, tending someone. All three wear black coats of heavy velvet. It is deathly silent. Shadows hang upon the far walls of the bedroom as thickly as any curtain and Harry chokes down the sickening feeling that he has done this before.

"Where is Michael, damn him!" Gabriel swears, his brown eyes flashing to amber for an instant. His voice has the undercurrent of a snarl-- an animal sound that is pure frustration. It leaves a gaping wound in the stifling silence. Harry takes his first breath since stepping out of the fire. That is when Harry first notices Vlad's absence from the room.

"He will come as soon as he can. You know that he will, for this," Shadow says. Gabriel's face darkens, his lips compressing into a thin line. He nods stiffly. With Gabriel's sleeves pulled, up it's possible to see the ugly scar that mars his left arm, or at least the bottom half of the scar, which goes almost as high as Bates' shoulder.

Harry remembers the night Gabriel received that scar.

_Harry had known immediately that the howl was not from a regular wolf. Draco had been on his feet, wand at the ready before the trilling echoes of the wolf's cry had faded. They still weren't fast enough._

_No one was fast enough to prevent what had happened next. Gabriel, tending to the wounded who were too gravely injured to even be removed from the battlefield, didn't see the grey streak of fur racing toward him. The wards had been breached, or else Greyback had not left the field before they were erected, and the wolf was closing in on his latest prey. _

_Harry wasn't sure who sounded more pained: Gabriel, as the werewolf's teeth pierced his skin, or Draco, as he watched the future of his childhood friend evaporate._

Harry doesn't want to look at the bed. He knows that if he does, he'll lose it. It's the same feeling of dread Harry had about approaching Nicholas's coffin. There's nothing that can prepare him for what lies on the bed. Ron must sense his panic because he reaches for Harry's hand and squeezes gently. Harry returns the squeeze gratefully, and taking a deep breath, looks past Gabriel at the figure on the bed.

A half-strangled cry escapes his throat and Harry finds himself caught up in another one of Ron's hugs. Harry closes his eyes and presses his face against Ron's chest, but it doesn't erase what he has just seen: Lucius, on the bed, his eyes closed and his lips a shade of blue that Harry has only seen during the war on those who were poisoned. The poison had spread through Lucius's veins, creating a lacey network of silver-blue lines across the blonde man's skin that was at once macabre and beautiful.

The door slams open as Michael rushes in, crushing a pendant to his chest. Sebastian is on his feet instantly, his gloved hands curled in tight fists. "Use it now," Gabriel snaps, opening Lucius' mouth. Michael pricks his finger on one of the pendant's many thorn-like projections and the pendant transforms itself into a vial containing a deeply purple liquid, which Michael wastes no time in pouring down Lucius' throat. The silver threads vanish almost instantly, but Lucius' lips remain blue and his breath is still coming in rapid grasps.

Gabriel waves his wand frantically with one hand and rummages through his doctor's bag with the other. "What's happening?" Sebastian asks. His voice is devoid of any emotion, but his expression is strained with what Harry recognizes as the sheer will Sebastian has to exert to control his empathy in a situation like this. Gabriel doesn't spare a look for Sebastian as he answers.

"His systems are failing. The poison has been neutralized but it has already caused a great deal of damage. He could still die"

Sebastian faints instantly. Shadow catches him and gently places him in the chair. "It was too much," he explains in answer to the puzzled looks on Harry and Ron's faces. "To feel not only his own grief and anxiety, but everyone else's. The spike of panic at Gabriel's last statement completely overwhelmed him."

Briefly, Harry wonders what it would be like to feel five times awful as he feels now and cannot fault Sebastian for passing out. Harry has rarely felt so awful in his life. In his experience, people just died. They were there and then, in the same moment, they weren't. Harry's experience with death is that actual death was quick, brutal, and clean. He has not witnessed this, has not had to watch helpless while the scale of life and death teeters first one way and then the other.

He is beyond grateful for Ron's hand holding his and Ron's arms half-holding him up.

"What was that?" Ron asks, his voice quiet, yet firm.

"Heartsease," Michael replies. His face is blank and mask-like as he watches Gabriel tend to Lucius.

"Heartsease is a love potion, not a poison," Ron counters.

"Fermented heartsease is a silver poison," comes the quiet response.

"I wasn't aware that love potions had shelf-lives."

"How long do you think the hope of love can be contained before it turns bitter and painful?" Michael retorts, his voice suddenly sharp. Even though the statement isn't directed at him, Harry winces.

"Why do you have access to heartsease?" The look Michael gives Ron is cool and remote, and when he answers something like a sneer hovers around his lips.

"It's a family heirloom. One of my ancestors was given heartsease by his wife of ten years. He never loved her, though she desperately loved him. She kept the heartsease potion for years, hoping that he would come to love her without it. Finally she gave up hope and turned bitter and fed him the fermented potion. Since then, every Lestrange receives heartsease as a sign of their inheritance."

"If it is supposed to save your life, why the bleeding hell did it take you so long to get it?" Gabriel snaps. Michael looks almost apologetic as he answers.

"It was in Gringott's. It would have come to my side instantly had I been poisoned. As it was, I had to retrieve it."

"How did Lucius end up being poisoned?" Harry asks, surprised to find his voice steady enough to articulate the words.

"Narcissa," Sebastian says, coming around. Shadow rushes to help him, but Sebastian waves him away. "I recognized the bottle as the one she gave him that last Christmas. How is he, Gabriel?"

"He's alive and I've managed to stop the damage, but he'll have to heal practically on his own for a while."

"How long is a while?" Sebastian asks weakly.

"Weeks."

"Weeks!" The word seemed to be echoed everywhere at once.

"There's nothing I can do directly. He's much too fragile at the moment."

"Nothing?" Sebastian asks. Gabriel pulls the ribbon from his hair and raggedly runs his hand through his hair.

"Well, I can brew some mild healing potions, but all they'll do is accelerate his natural healing by a very small amount. "

Sebastian nods and turns to address Ron. "Minister, you can leave Harry with us. You must be terribly busy and besides, you must realize by now that we won't hurt him."

"You knew?" Harry says, blinking. Sebastian's smile is soft, the edges blurred by the blonde's own tiredness.

"We all knew. James and Evan recognized you. Gabriel can smell you. It took me longer to piece together your thoughts and feelings."

"I didn't know," Michael said quietly. There is a tense moment. "Potter, may I have a word in Lucius' study?" Harry nods.

Michael closes the doors of the study behind Harry. A sparkle catches Harry eye and Harry recognizes the remains of Lucius' favorite glass, shards of it scattered upon the floor. "I wanted to talk to you anyway, but it becomes even more relevant now that I know who you are."

"I didn't intend for everyone to know," Harry begins.

"Don't. It's my own damn fault for being the slowest of the bunch." Vlad flashes a small smile at Harry. The smile fades quickly into a somber, tired sort of expression. "I know you and Lucius quarreled, and I can guess what about, and I must say this: you have to forgive Lucius, and you have to face your past with Draco." Harry can feel his own features turn to stone.

"I can't," he says, turning away from Lestrange.

"You can. To do otherwise would be cowardly and you're too damn important to Lucius to be a coward. "

"I cannot forgive him this."

"You cannot forgive him for being a death eater? Or you cannot forgive him for making you fall in love with a death eater?" Lestrange's eyes are greener than Harry's own as they watch for Harry for a reaction.

Somewhere in the room, something breaks. Harry hopes it was expensive. Lestrange raises an eyebrow. "The Dark Lord found it amusing, you know—a love triangle between you and the Malfoys. He let you bargain with Lucius in the hopes that the situation would erupt into chaos and he could bring Draco to his side when you destroyed Draco by sleeping with his father."

"I would never—"

"Hurt Draco like that. Of course not. You loved him, didn't you?"

There is a moment of cutting silence in which Harry broods and Lestrange looks on.

"Michael, you are a right bastard. Leave the man alone. He has been through enough already." Sebastian's voice is sweet, but firm and the look on the blonde's face says that if Michael insists on pressing the issue, he is going to get it.

"Sorry," Sebastian says once Michael has gone. "He really does mean to help. He can't stand to see anyone suffer from love."

"Where is Ron?"

"Currently giving our dear doctor the third degree. He realized that it was the full moon and Gabriel hadn't changed."

"Thank, Merlin. I hadn't even noticed. How did he manage that?"

"He was bitten by a vampire after the war. You know vampires and werewolves are natural enemies?" Harry nods, forcing back thoughts of Nicholas.

"Well, the vampire and the wolf in Gabriel keep each other so exhausted from fighting over control over him that he cannot fully transform into either."

"Half and half equals neither?"

"He is sensitive to the sun. He is short-tempered around the full moon. He's pretty strong, rather fast and he has a sometimes annoying penchant for raw meat." Harry gapes at Sebastian. The blonde chuckles.

"Go back to Hogwarts," Sebastian says gently, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. "You look dead on your feet."

"What would I do at Hogwarts?" Harry asks, ignoring the burning sensation in his eyes.

"The same thing you'd do here—wait," Ron says, entering the room. "But at least at Hogwarts, you'd have something to do with your time."

"I'll stay here."

"Will you be alright if I leave you here?" Ron's eyes are bright with concern. Harry curses himself for whatever he did to make Ron look at him that way.

"Yes, Ron. Go home. Stop babysitting me and get back to your family."

"You are my family, Harry, and I'm sorry, really, I am, for those years you spent alone because you thought 'Mione and I had deserted you." Harry feels his throat close up.

"Ron, go home. 'Mione will be worried sick about you." Ron sighs.

"All right, all right. Keep me posted, will you? If I don't receive an owl from you every other day, I'm going to hunt you down."

"You're Minister of Magic; you don't have time to hunt me down," Harry quips, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Ron grins.

"Good point. I'll get the Unspeakables to track you down."

"You wouldn't!"

"Try me." Harry recognizes the glint in Ron's eye. It is pure determination with only the appearance of common mischief. Harry knows when he has lost.

"Fine. I'll write. Go home, Ron."

After a final hug, Ron disappears through the fireplace. Harry tries and fails to smother a yawn. Sebastian takes Harry's hand. "Let's find you a place to sleep," he says. Harry opens his mouth to insist that he can stay in a chair in Lucius' room, but only another yawn comes out. Cursing his own sleepiness, Harry allows himself to be led to a room adjacent to Lucius', where his head barely hits the pillow before he falls into a much-needed sleep.

* * *

More will follow as soon as I can manage. In the meanwhile, please review.

Always,

J. Silver


	24. Unmasking

A/N: I was puzzling out 3-4 chapters at once, so this took much longer than I had anticipated. Next update will definitely be before Valentine's Day. Meanwhile, thank you so much for your patience and your kind words.

In particular, many thanks to Susan Potter, Emileigh, VacantVisage, Loussi, darkfaerie161, Bex Drake, helena, LDH caine, Cleindori, Jenna, Morange, kumak, Purple Raveness, Jane.Jumped, Kittendragon, Mirokuluver's Friend, miadragonlover, Xelena, deedee10, Siri02, Bobbi, louey31, Madd Girl, Love-Of-The-Draconis, AthenaSamantha, TanyaPotter, Cut-Wrist Kate, akuma-river, Beautiful-Boy-Love, Penguin Steps, cdlowe8, ura-hd, Lucius, Hasamaki, TheWingedWhispered, and gizachick.

* * *

Harry is awakened by "our dear doctor" pulling him upright by his shoulder and pouring potion down his throat. Harry sputters. "Don't even think about it spitting it out. You have traces of all kinds of nasty things in your system. You were turning green in your sleep. Worried the pants off Sebastian." Apparently, around the full moon, Gabriel's bedside manner is lacking. Not that Harry blames him. Gabriel looks wan and tired.

"You look like you need a pepper-up potion," Harry observes tiredly. Gabriel gives a grin that fails to develop properly and ends up a grimace.

"I've already had three. My metabolism makes short work of them. I'm not sure it's safe to take any more. How do you feel?"

"Fine." Gabriel glares at Harry. In the early morning light, his eyes glint amber and his slightly elongated canines press into his lower lip. It's a scary sight. "Ok, my head hurts and I'm a little dizzy. Ron says I was sick a few times last night."

"You went partying last night?"

"I went wallowing last night." The look Gabriel gives him is nearly kind, but falls short due to the stress of the full moon and the strain of the evening.

"Well, next time you go out wallowing, could you refrain from willingly ingesting enough date rape drug for three people?"

"I didn—"

"Harry, if you were too drunk to register the taste or altered sensation, then you would have died from alcohol poisoning before these drugs even began to take effect. These ingredients aren't subtle."

Harry is silent. Gabriel swears. "You and Lucius are just alike, you know. Stubborn, half-suicidal—"

"You think Lucius deliberately ingested the poison?" Harry interjects. Gabriel frowns.

"Heartsease has a very distinct smell and taste. It smells like rotting flowers and I've read that it makes things unbearably sweet. So while Narcissa may have put it in the bottle, Lucius certainly put it in his stomach." Harry opens his mouth to ask another question, but finds himself silenced.

"Stop talking. Go back to sleep and let the potion go to work. It's supposed to clean out your system." Harry starts to protest, but pair of arms surrounds him and pulls him into a pile of pillows. On the edges of the embrace, Harry sees tendrils of blond hair. Comforted, he relaxes and gives himself over to sleep.

Harry dreams.

The room is familiar. The building has collapsed. There is a heap of rubble in the center. The tip of Voldemort's now fragmented wand can be seen underneath the heap of stone. Lucius is there, clad in his death eater robes, his mask in his hands. His face is fiercely glad, in a way that Harry has never seen before.

Harry, unharmed, smiles at Lucius. Lucius crosses the room and, taking Harry in his arms, kisses him. It is a kiss unlike any of the other kisses they have shared. This is one is slow, deliberate, thorough. It burns, because that is the way Harry reacts to Lucius' touch--- to the man's very presence. Whether he burns with hate or lust or pure want, Harry may never know, but beyond that familiar burn, the kiss lacks the wildness or the desperation of the last kisses he and Lucius had shared in reality. The kisses they had shared in reality were stolen—the collapse of Harry's will power punching a hole in Lucius' composure. As such, they had been intense, desperate – feeding a need that Harry, at least, couldn't fully understand.

This is Lucius kissing Harry as if he has every right to be kissing Harry.

He is everywhere at once—his lips on Harry's lips, his hair falling around them, brushing Harry's cheeks, his body hot against Harry's, his hands on Harry's back. Harry kisses him back without reservation. Lucius pushes him against one of the few walls left intact. Harry's legs wrap around Lucius. His hands tangle in Lucius' hair. Lucius breaks off the kiss, working on the fastenings of Harry's clothing. Harry lets his head fall against the wall. His gaze wanders past Lucius' shoulder—and right into Draco's storm grey eyes.

The shock wakes him.

Harry slides out of bed and slips into the adjacent bathroom. He splashes cold water on his face and looks at himself in the mirror. The face of Jonathan S. Scryer stares back at him. Harry wonders how long it will be before he can give up the comfort of this mask. It has given him what he has craved since he was fourteen and the Prophet started publishing article about him in earnest and what he longed for desperately since the war—anonymity and the chance to be free of the burden of his legacy.

No, he tells himself, it gave me the chance to hide from it. It gave him a chance to pretend to be just like everyone else, but he was indeed, only pretending. He would never be like anyone else, would he?

"_I'm not going to a dinner party given by your father and that is that," Harry says._

"_You should meet people like you," Draco says. His voice is thin. _

"_Those rich, pureblood snobs are hardly like me," Harry scoffs. Draco slams his fist on the table._

"_Damn it, Potter, stop not giving yourself airs!" _

"_Excuse me?" Harry asks, blinking. _

"_You heard me. Stop trying to be like everyone else. You're like the prince in that stupid Muggle story with the pauper. When are you going to realize that you aren't like everyone else?"_

"_What?" More blinking on Harry's part._

"_It's fraud, that's what it is. It's a downright lie. Your family is as old as mine and just as respected. Your father marrying down to a Muggleborn was the scandal of a generation. And even if you were not a Potter, you are still the Boy Who Lived to Kill that Mass-Murdering Wanker. You are special, Potter. Stop slumming and get over it." Harry can only gape at Draco in shock. Draco sighs, and runs a hand though his hair. "Stop staring at me. Go put some dress robes on. You are going to dinner if it kills you. "_

"_You are special, Potter… Get over it."_ Draco's voice, laced with disgust and weariness and maybe even a little bit of pride, echoes in Harry's head. So maybe Harry hadn't asked to be chosen to be the regarded as the savior of the wizarding world. So maybe Harry hadn't asked to be born into Pureblood society, as Draco insisted he had been. So maybe Harry hadn't asked to be designated the heir of the Malfoy family, as Lucius insisted he had been, but he was. And Harry hadn't asked to love Draco Malfoy, but he had.

He winces at the thought and turns his face away from the mirror as if that would shield him from thoughts of loving Draco and the pain they carry.

But another voice arrests his impulse to turn away, to hide. It is Michael's voice.

"_You're too damn important to Lucius to be a coward." _

Harry looks into the mirror again There is no point in running. Not only is his disguise now worthless, but what good is a disguise if he insists on hanging around the only people who would have seen through it anyway? Besides, he has been running in circles and he was right back to square one: afraid, and hiding from his past and Lucius Malfoy. _This is not me_, he thinks. _Harry James Potter is not a coward. Harry James Potter does not run and he does not hide. He fights. _

_So fight_, answers that small part of him that sounds like his voice with Draco's drawling tones. _Or are you waiting for someone to shoot a Dark Mark into the sky?_

Harry grins— and underneath that grin there is a new resolve.

"The time of hiding is finished. Return, Harry Potter."

With a feeling like cold water washing over his skin, Jonathan Scryer fades and Harry Potter appears in his place. Harry spends a long time studying his reflection as if he has never seen it before. He is slender and wiry—and short. He winces, having forgotten that particular detail. His face is oval—the set of his jaw is strong, though the shape of it is delicate. His eyes tilt at the corners and burn brilliantly green. His hair was as long as it had been a moment ago, except it wanted to form soft waves around his face. Then there was the lightening bolt scar, which stood out white against otherwise tanned skin. Harry is shocked to realize that he is actually good-looking. Or rather, he is shocked to find that he considers himself as such. He had always assumed that people who thought he was attractive were mildly deluded. The idea that maybe that is not the case is an intriguing one.

He slips from the bathroom into Lucius' bedroom. It is morning, but only just, as if the events of last night had unfolded in the space between hours, outside of the normal bounds of time. In the large bed, Lucius lies unmoving except for the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The simple fact that Lucius is still breathing fills Harry with immense relief, though the traces of the anxiety brought upon by his dream are still there. Harry drifts to the window. The day is picturesque. Harry cannot remember having seen the grounds of the Manor unfold so perfectly against the backdrop of a never-ending sky. Evan Rosier is a serene accessory to the view.

The first few months of their acquaintance, Harry had thought that Rosier was a second-year, blond Hufflepuff named Elaine. Even after they had been properly introduced, it had been a long time before Harry was able to connect the bright, bubbly Elaine to the reserved and often taciturn Evan Rosier. Shadow seemed to go beyond the realms of an ordinary metamorphagus. During the war, he had been invaluable—formless and nameless, he had moved through Voldemort's ranks with unparalleled ease.

Voldemort had spent quite a lot of time looking for the last Rosier. Both Rosier's father, Evan Sr., and his grandfather had been Death Eaters and Voldemort saw the last Rosier as his personal right. However, custody of Rosier, the Only, went to Alphard Black, who raised the boy with a combination of Pureblood tradition and stealth. Evan had gone through Hogwarts each year as a different student, switching names, gender and houses. He had been in Ravenclaw twice, every other house once and had spent a year each at Beauxbatons and Durmstang.

_Rosier entered the room of requirement silently. His features were deliberately blurred and indistinct, except for his eyes. It was unnerving and looking at him made Harry feel a little queasy. As Draco had instructed him, Harry gave a short bow and extended his hand. "It is an honor to receive Rosier, the Only." Harry and Draco had quarreled over those words. Harry had thought they were just plain rude but Draco had insisted that "the Only" was indeed Rosier's proper title, since he was both the Elder and the Younger. Rosier had taken his hand and returned the bow. _

"_Rosier is pleased to accept your invitation."_

"_I'm sorry to say we haven't met before."_

"_Oh, but we have," Rosier replied, the corners of his blurred mouth turning up in a smile._

"_Have we?"_

_In a moment, Rosier was gone, replaced by a beautiful brunette with startling blue eyes. Harry started, recognizing a girl he had asked on a date in his sixth year. "You gave me flowers, once," Rosier said in a voice that Harry remembered all too well from adolescent fantasies that suddenly seemed too recent for comfort. _

"_You said they were your favorite," Harry replied. There was a word for how he was feeling, though "embarrassed" seemed to fall painfully short of describing it. _

"_And so they were," Rosier replied, curtseying. By the time he had recovered from the curtsey, he had changed back to the young man with dark eyes and blurry features._

"_I came to offer my services," he said._

"_Malfoy mentioned something like that," Harry said, fighting to recover some composure._

"_It's not in my interest to have Voldemort in power. I do not wish to serve and he will not accept that."_

"_What are you offering?" Harry asked, though after his personal embarrassment, Harry already had a hunch about the kind of help Rosier could give them._

"_You need spies, I heard. After what happened to Severus Snape, no one would dream of turning against Voldemort." The recollection of what befell Snape made Harry wince. _

"_We do have an unfortunate dearth of information regarding Voldemort's movements," he admitted._

"_I can help."_

"_Name your terms."_

"_I work according to my own methods and provide you with information in a timely manner. You do not mention my name or my affiliation to anyone. As far as you're concerned, the last Rosier is a myth—a dark Pureblood escapist fantasy." Harry chuckled at that last bit._

"_Can I see your face?" he asked._

"_No, that is for my protection. If you don't know what I really look like, then you cannot betray me—even accidentally." Harry frowned, though he had to agree that Rosier's precaution was probably a necessary one._

"_Alright. We have an agreement," he said after a moment's pause. Rosier bowed._

"_Until we meet again, I will remain your Estranged Friend."_

"I was wondering how long it would take you to return to us," Rosier says, not looking at Harry. Harry blinks. "It is good that you have found your courage. Welcome back, my Estranged Friend." There is something strange in Rosier's voice. It is warm yet impersonal, amused yet serious, but it has conviction and that conviction gives Harry the strength not to turn away when Rosier's eyes meet his.

"Though you are a bit shorter than I would have imagined." Harry turns to see Sebastian entering the room. His voice is thick with sleep and his hair is tousled, but he still looks perfect in a way unique to Malfoys and their relatives. His smile gives way to something more serious, and Harry is reminded of the remote young man he glimpsed at the bar.

Harry bows to Sebastian and extends his hand. "Harry Potter, lately of Hogwarts." Sebastian returns the bow and takes Harry's hand.

"Sebastian Hornby of Rose Hill. It is an honor to meet the Man Who Defeated Voldemort."

"It is no less of an honor to meet a true empath."

"Come, there are things I'd like to discuss with you." At the look on Harry's face, Sebastian laughs. His smile is the slightest smirk. "You've had a talk with everyone else. Now it's my turn."

"But Shadow has been standing watch all night—"

"Proper Rosiers do not need to sleep. Go on. You have your own business to attend to," Shadow says, his eyes sparkling with amusement. With a glance at Rosier and one last glance at Lucius' sleeping form, Harry follows Sebastian out of the room.

* * *

Already working on the next chapter, which should be in up in a couple of weeks. Meanwhile, review!

With Love,

J. Silver


	25. Hope

A/N: Ok, so I'm not completely satisfied with this one, but if I wait until I am, then you folks wouldn't get this until Easter.

Many thanks to the following reviewers: Ura-hd, Aaye, Gabby Kathleen, Carolyn, Angle, Lucius, Jane, Shadowed-Seraph, Susan Potter, alliekatgal, Bobbi, Bex Drake, Mirokuluver's Friend, lilylupin7, Beautiful-Boy-Love, Zelphie, Penguin Steps, celestialuna, akuma-river, amy (The song in that chapter is mine and it exists only in this fic), miadragonlover, louey13, darkfaerie161, JediMasterWithAPen, Xelena, Xenia Marvolo, Madd Girl, Emileigh, spinnerofdark, Ambwardo, gizachick, and Cut-Wrist Kate.

Lots of Draco in this chapter, actually. Enjoy!

* * *

Sebastian leads the way through the manor. Harry is grateful that Sebastian's back is to him. Sometimes, Harry finds it too hard to look at Sebastian. He looks too much like people Harry has loved and lost. Now isn't one of those times. Today it is simply a matter of having the courage to face people as himself. It is harder than Harry remembered—being himself.

Harry follows Sebastian through parts of the manor that he doesn't recognize. Sebastian's gait is easy, though in it Harry recognizes both traces of Nicholas' swagger and a slight swaying of the hips, which Harry suspects Sebastian has picked up from performing in high heels. They are silent. Harry is grateful for that, too. It gives him a chance to compose himself. When they stop, it is in front of a door that is all too familiar to Harry.

"Here we are," Sebastian says, opening the door to Draco's bedroom.

To Harry, Draco's room always resembled a library with a bed. Sometimes, a stack of books with a bed, as Draco had a tendency to just leave books in piles until he was absolutely sure that he was finished with them. Nestled in amongst the bookshelves that lined the walls were windows, a bed, a fireplace, a wardrobe, and a desk. The room looks just as Draco would have kept it—neat and tidy, with the exception of a small pile of books that sat on the desk.

Sebastian closes the door behind them. His face is solemn. Harry is learning to dislike Sebastian's solemn expressions. When Sebastian has a solemn expression, he tends to sound more like his relatives and less angelic. "I had hoped not to have this talk with you, but recent events suggest that you are just as dense as my cousin always said you were." There is no trace of amusement in Sebastian's voice, which is sharp and cold with a trace of disappointment. Harry sighs, suddenly weary. He takes the chair at Draco's desk.

"Goody, I love being told what an idiot I am. Draco and Hermione used to do it loads."

Sebastian smirks slightly. "You know, you only use his first name when you speak about him third person. You always called him Malfoy to his face."

"So?" Harry retorts, fiddling with the books on Draco's desk.

"He did the same thing when he talked about you." Harry looks up.

"He talked about me?" Sebastian's smirk mellows into something that's almost a smile and when he speaks, some of the coldness has left his voice.

"All the time. He was fond of you, though most people wouldn't have been able to tell. And if you had died before he did, he would have done the same thing you've done—killed Voldemort and then become an inconsolable wretch, but at least he would have been inconsolable while carrying out his duties to others."

"I am not an inconsolable wretch!" Harry protests. Is he?

"You're not the only one who lost something when Draco died, you know. I understand that there were unique circumstances binding the two of you—"

"Sympathetic magic," Harry whispers, running his finger along the spine of a book.

"What?"

"We were magically sympathetic," Harry says. The look on Sebastian's face is similar to how Harry's face must have looked when he was told that Sebastian was an empath.

_It is Draco who taught Harry how to cast a spell properly. Magic, for Harry was like breathing. He did it because he had to and he could, not because he took any particular joy in it. Magic, for Draco, was art. Draco taught Harry how the swish and flick of Wingardium Leviosa could be as precise and graceful as dance, how an individual's magic left a stamp on any spell, and how to pronounce incantations for maximum effect. _

_Not that Harry learned these lessons particularly well, but Draco made a point of attempting to teach him anyway. _

"_Potter," Draco's tone was brusque, shaking Harry from his reverie._

"_H'm?"_

"_Pay attention." Harry sighed._

"_Why? You keep talking about paired spells. Hermione says that most wizards are crazy to even try, their odds of getting it right are so slim, even among spouses."_

"_That's because paired spells require knowledge of magic, knowledge of yourself, knowledge of your partner and one other component," Draco said. Despite himself, Harry's curiosity was piqued._

"_What's that?" he asked, almost resentfully._

"_Sympathetic magic."_

"_What?"_

"_Sympathetic magic, Potter, is the term used to describe the phenomenon in which two wizards' magical signatures are synchronized, such that the combination of the two results in a single, more powerful magical signature."_

"_How often does this happen?"_

"_About as often as Muggles win the lottery, at least, in terms of fully sympathetic magic. There are degrees of magical sympathy. Family members are usually sympathetic to some extent. Older families used to choose heirs based on magical sympathy. The similarity of magical signatures sometimes makes it easier for magical objects and properties to align themselves to the new owner."_

_Harry thought about this for a moment._

"_So, the reason you keep nattering on about paired spells is because you think we're magically compatible?"_

"_And?"_

"_And you think that our history of hating one another and our newfound…whatever this is, will give us the insight we need to read each other while casting these spells."_

"_Go on."_

"_Which you think will give us an advantage over Death Eaters and possible old Voldepants himself."_

"_You know, it really disturbs me when you call the Dark Lord 'Voldepants.' You do realize that technically that means 'Flight of Pants'?"_

"_Does it really?" Harry asked, amused. Draco rolled his eyes. _

"_Yes, and yes, you are correct."_

Sebastian's dumbstruck expression lasts for only a split-second. "Well, that would qualify as 'unique circumstances'," he says wryly. Harry pulls from a bookshelf a book entitled "On Magical Sympathies" and flips past "Symptoms" and into "Side Effects". He shows the page to Sebastian who reads aloud:

"Though generally beneficial, the bonding of magic on such an intimate level can have dark side effects. The loss of one's sympathetic partner can be magically and emotionally devastating. At its worse, such a loss can result in a lack of desire or even an inability to cast spells. The double loss generally requires a long period of mourning and recovery, particularly since magical partners tend to form strong emotional bonds. In a healthy relationship, these bonds manifest as friendship or marriage. In cases of damaged relationships, strong enmity with frequent confrontations is often the result, conflict being necessary to satisfy---"

Harry shuts the book.

"As I said, my cousin would be very upset as well," Sebastian says. His voice is still cool, but not as cold as before. Harry wonders how much of that change is Sebastian's mood improving and how much of it is Sebastian being unable to maintain an icy façade for long.

"At first, I was upset, but that only lasted until the funeral. Then I went numb and I did what everyone expected of me. Then I came here and I was scared. Lucius had a way of looking at me that worked through all the numbness and got right under your skin. I wasn't ready to feel again, so I ran. "

"But Lucius found you."

"And gave me the chance to run again. At first, it was all right—a new me, a chance at being just normal. Nicholas was the first person I let touch me in years, and I loved him. I shouldn't have and I didn't realize that I did, but then I lost him. Then I realized just what I had lost." Harry pauses, his throat tightening. Sebastian looks down at the floor for a long moment. When he looks up, his eyes are glistening. There is a moment of shared loss between them, and Harry finds himself oddly comforted by it.

"Then there was Lucius again and all of you and so many, many reminders of the war and of Draco. Everything I love, I lose. I've lost everything to Voldemort and his war—even those fucking territorial squabbles are the result of Voldemort's meddling there."

Sebastian is silent. Harry would have thought that saying everything he just said would have felt awkward, but it wasn't. Maybe it was Sebastian's empathy, but the words had come almost effortlessly. Then again, maybe it was just that the words were overdue. Harry takes a deep breath. He feels better now, lighter somehow.

"Then you know just how my uncle feels," Sebastian says. Harry nods. He can understand the losses that Lucius has suffered. "But there's something you fail to realize," Sebastian adds.

"I fail to realize a lot. As Draco must have told you, observation isn't one of my talents." Sebastian smiles a little.

"You give my uncle hope, Mr. Potter." Harry's laugh is bitter. It has been so long since Harry has dared to hope for anything. The idea of him inspiring such a thing in anyone is sadly amusing.

"Hope of what?" he asks.

"Hope that his life has not been in vain." The shock that Harry feels at those words leaves him momentarily speechless.

"You're wrong," he blurts out, once he is able. Sebastian has to be wrong, he has to be. There is no way that Harry could have come to mean so much to Lucius—to anyone. Sebastian raises an eyebrow.

"Am I? In you, there is the continuation of his line, the sum of the love and blood of his son, of Lucius' teachings and his ceaseless efforts to protect something of himself from the madness of that lunatic. If you do not accept your duty to him—a duty you've already accepted twice—you will kill him."

"Stop." Harry doesn't want to hear this. He can't hear this. He can't. Sebastian continues.

"The Malfoy estate as it was entrusted to Lucius shall cease to exist, the last wish of his son will have meant nothing and Lucius himself will spend the rest of his days with only the knowledge of his failure to keep him company."

"It's not fair for you to ask this of me!" How can anyone ask him to take on the burden of someone else's happiness, when he has failed so miserably at procuring his own?

"No, it isn't, but life is not fair and life has not been very kind to the house of my uncle. If you love him, if you loved my cousin, you will not let this happen. You will not neglect your obligations here." There is a heavy silence, one that makes it difficult for Harry to breathe.

"Did Draco love me?" Harry asks suddenly.

"What?"

"You might have sensed something. I have to know. Did he love me?"

"How many times did Draco have to prove his devotion before you would believe it?"

"I'm not talking about loyalty."

"Yes. My cousin loved you. He trusted you and he watched over you and he died for you. He even saw fit to provide for you if something should happen to him. He gave you family, Harry. His family. He gave you us—and he brought you to Lucius."

"He brought me to Lucius?" Harry asks, blinking.

"He left a note to be delivered in the event that he died before Lucius."

"What did it say?"

"It said 'John 19.26-27. You and Potter are well matched.'"

"The Bible?"

"It was a favorite of Draco's."

"Draco wasn't religious."

That is, perhaps, an understatement.

"_I don't believe in God," Draco said flatly. The statement caught Harry off-guard. Harry's own use of the word "God" was casual, at best. He had hardly expected Draco to comment upon it seriously._

"_No?" Harry asked, looking askance at Draco. _

"_No. I believe in no supreme being, no master plan, no final judgement or resting place. This is all there is and this is all that matters and at the moment, it's pretty fucked up."_

"_Then why do you fight so hard?"_

"_Because if this is all there is, then it's worth fighting to make it all it should be, isn't it? No second chances. This one has to count for everything." Draco's smile was wistful. He looked small against the immense backdrop of the open sky and land. With the wind ruffling his fine hair, he looked like a boy—a normal boy. Harry looked away, his eyes stinging._

_Somehow, talking philosophy with Draco always made Harry more depressed._

"No, he wasn't, but he thought the Bible was a fine piece of dramatic literature."

"So what does it mean?" Sebastian held out his hand and in the space it took him to cast a wordless summoning charm, a book came to him. He holds the book out to Harry.

"See for yourself."

Harry has seen a Bible once before. The Dursleys had had one. It had been pristine. The spine was never cracked, the pages were never ruffled, and the gold leaf around the edges was perfect. Draco's copy is nothing like that. It is a much better copy than the Dursleys', that's true, but Draco's actually shows signs of wear.

Harry riffles through the pages, looking for the passage. There it is, underlined:

"When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son! Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother! And from that hour that disciple took her unto his own home."

Harry stares at those words for a moment, his throat going dry. "Who is supposed to take care of whom?"

"I like to think that they meant to care for each other," Sebastian says gently. He hands Harry a small black book and exits the room quietly, leaving Harry to think.

The first paired spell that Harry and Draco performed together was a variation of Sinister Peace. The non-lethal variation would render everyone within a certain radius unconscious, to be revived only at the casters' will. The spell required that Draco point his wand, Harry take Draco by his left hand, spin him in a movement that reminded Harry of dance lessons for the Yule Ball, and then, with his hand over Draco's, use Draco's wand to trace an infinity symbol, counter-clockwise.

The movement, though cumbersome for Harry to think about, actually went quite smoothly in practice and it was something, to be so close to Draco that he could feel the magic of the spell moving through Draco's body and joining with the magic coursing through his own body. It was exhilarating and—Harry was almost ashamed to say-- nearly better than flying.

So it is quite easy to figure out what to say when the first leaf of Draco's journal prompts him for a password.

"Pacis Atra."

* * *

H'm, I might edit this later. I'll try to get the next one out soon, but class makes doing other things near-impossible. Until then, be a dear and leave a review?

With love,

J. Silver


	26. A Visitation

A/N: Well, the end is in sight (for me, at least.) Far from being relieved about it , I'm actually nervous about it and my desire for things to be just so has kicked into high gear. Please bear with me. There are about six chapters (including this one) left and I want them to be as great as I can possibly write them.

Many sincere thanks to those who have been following this story for years and thanks and a welcome to those who have recently discovered this. Enjoy!

* * *

Harry reads Draco's journal all night. There isn't much in it that he doesn't already know, but what he doesn't know hits him hard:

"_He cries in his sleep. I didn't know that about him. I remember that I used to think that he was disgustingly perfect, that he just miraculously triumphed over evils most people can't dream of again and again and it never fazed him. Working with him, I can now say that's not true. _

_The other night, while we were huddled together (What use is there in being a wizard if one can't cast a warming charm to stop from freezing one's bollocks off? Stupid magic-sensitive wards. ) he cried in his sleep. I ignored it at first, but Potter sounded really pathetic—like a wounded puppy. No one should cry like that. Anyway, I put my arms around him and he turned toward me, clinging to me. _

_(Somehow his face ended up buried in my shoulder, his lips resting against my neck. It was a very intimate position and the response it provoked in me was awkward. Very awkward. Thank magic he was in no state to notice.) _

_He quieted, though, and as he settled back into sleep, I could've sworn he said my name. I stayed up half the night holding him and thinking about that moment and that sound that could've been my name. When dawn came and I rearranged us, he seemed more real to me then than ever before. Flesh and blood, capable of being hurt, capable of being upset, and capable of being soothed—by me_."

Harry hastily wipes at a tear running down his cheek and flips forward several pages.

_Father knows. I shouldn't be surprised, really. He always knows. Perhaps I am just that transparent. Our conversation went something like this:_

'_You care for him.'_

'_I do.'_

'_That is appropriate.'_

'_I'm surprised to hear you think so.'_

'_It would please you to know that I've started some legal proceedings to free him from his guardians? And offered him Malfoy Manor as sanctuary?'_

'_The Ministry will never go for that.'_

'_Perhaps, but allegations of abusing the Boy Who Lived will not be taken lightly. They will do what they can for him.'_

_Sometimes, Father still manages to surprise me._

'_He cares for you,' he said._

'_I'm sure he does. Human shields are very hard to come by.'_

'_That's not what I meant and you know it.'_

'_What would you have me do?'_

'_Only what you would.'_

_I repeat, Father still manages to surprise me. _

Harry remembers something of those charges. At first, he had thought they were just part of Lucius' attempts to use the Ministry to control him, but as more and more unsavory details about his guardians came to light, it had begun to seem as if Lucius Malfoy really had been trying to help him. Draco had been very quiet about the whole thing— and rather tense.

_Some days, I really want to hit Potter. Not as often as I used to want to hit Potter, but still. I especially want to hit him on days when he acts like he has no ambitions beyond defeating Voldemort, like he's content to be everyone else's errand boy. Days when he seems to want nothing for himself, I want to throttle him. I've never seen such a waste. He really doesn't understand. He has no clue why I get upset at him when I ask him what he wants to do after the war and he looks at me as if such a thing as 'after the war' has never occurred to him. His whole life he has never mattered as himself—even now, when he's so important. It continues because he lets it. He lets them use him and he has no idea how disgusting it is that the world has decided to let a child fight their war for them. But can I really be surprised that he's clueless when he doesn't even think of himself as a child—never even thinks about himself at all?_

That was the last thing Harry reads before falling asleep on Draco's bed, the journal open beside him. He opens his eyes to find Draco sitting at his desk. He is, as usual, dressed in black and his face is solemn. It is beautiful. He is beautiful, unchanged and Harry can feel tears welling up in the corner of his eyes and if this is a dream, Harry doesn't want to know.

"Why are you here?" Draco asks. Harry props himself up on one elbow.

"You wanted me to be here, didn't you?" he asks, confused. Draco frowns.

"No, I didn't."

"Then why the brooch? Why the will?"

"I didn't want you to be here because I wanted you to be here. I wanted you to be here because you wanted to be here."

"I---"

"What do you want, Potter?" Draco asks, cutting him off.

"I—"

"What do you really want?" Draco asks gently, cutting him off again.

"I want to belong somewhere," Harry responds. His cheeks flush when he thinks of how pitiful that must sound. Draco's frown fades.

"I wanted to give you that," he says.

"I want to belong with someone," Harry adds quietly.

"I wanted to give you that, too."

"I loved you." Draco gives Harry a small smile, the corners of his mouth quirking in a way that makes Harry's heart break.

"I'm not the only person who has ever loved you, Potter. Did you think I'd leave you in the hands of someone who wouldn't care for you as I would have?"

"Lucius…"

"You want him, don't you?"

Harry nods. Draco chuckles.

"I thought so. For once, in your damned life, Potter, do something for yourself—and running doesn't count."

Draco rises from the chair and takes Harry's chin in his hand. His touch is steady and the lips he presses lightly to Harry's are as warm as sunlight. "Next time we have to have this talk, I will hit you," Draco says with a smirk.

Harry wakes up with a strange feeling. He had been dreaming, hadn't he? He closes Draco's journal, which had lain open on the pillow beside him, and stashes it in the drawer of the bedside table. From the sunlight streaming through the windows, Harry figures that it's late morning. After a moment's hesitation, he opens the wardrobe and picks something simple to wear.

He heads to Lucius' room as soon as he is dressed. The sound of raised voices coming from the next room over makes him pause at the door. "You said what?" It sounds like Rosier's voice, except Harry has never heard Rosier's voice like this. "How could you do that to him?" he asks.

"Do what?" A voice that Harry recognizes as Sebastian's counters.

"You spare him from Michael's rant last night and then you corner him with this now?"

"I said what had to be said." Sebastian's tone is defensive.

"There were better ways to say it, more gentle ways to say it, and you chose to ignore them." Rosier's tone is too tired to be called angry. He is disappointed, maybe.

"If I had been more gentle, more discreet, do you think he would have gotten the point?"

"Maybe."

"He is only beginning to muddle through his own pain."

"Which is exactly why you should have waited before blindsiding him with this!"

"Waited for what? For someone else to die? For Lucius to slit his wrists?"

"Lucius is stronger than that, and you are wrong to forget it."

"He is lying comatose in his bed from ingesting poison. He is in pain. He has endured so much already."

"And he can endure more."

"You can't feel his pain like I can."

"And you've never been hurt like he has either. He will live through it, because as long as he and Potter are still alive, there's still hope. You were wrong about this."

"And you've been hurt? You? The last Rosier—the scion of shadow and mystery? What do you know about pain? You, who don't feel anything!"

"What I do or don't feel is hardly a matter for your concern." Rosier doesn't even give Sebastian the pleasure of raising his voice. By this point in their argument, he sounds neutrally polite, too far removed from the situation to even be amused.

There was a silence and then a sharp crack. Harry barely has time to move from the door before it swings open and Sebastian storms out. Harry is still standing there when Evan emerges from the room a moment later. "Good morning, Harry," Shadow says pleasantly upon seeing Harry standing with his mouth open in the doorway. There is a large red handprint on his cheek. He steers Harry into Lucius' room.

Lestrange is there already, reading a copy of The Quibbler. "You read that trash?" Harry asks, somewhat surprised.

"The life of a pureblood heir is hard. This is just one of many sacrifices I must make regularly," Lestrange says, punctuating his response with melodramatic sighs.

"Shut up," Harry says. Lestrange flashes a grin, which vanishes as soon as he gets a good look at Rosier's face.

"What in the name of Merlin and all that is magic happened to you?"

"Sebastian slapped him." Rosier looks at him, dark eyes unreadable. Michael's face turns dark and he glowers at Evan.

"Explain," he says.

"Sebastian and I had a disagreement regarding his discussion with Harry. I think his method was far too direct and heavy-handed. He feels Harry would have missed his point if he had been subtler."

"Is that all?"

"That's all," Rosier says pleasantly.

"Sebastian accused Shadow of feeling nothing," Harry adds. He ignores Evan's look of amused betrayal.

"And Sebastian slapped him when?" Michael demands.

"After Shadow told Sebastian that how he felt was none of Sebastian's affair."

Michael's expression turns cool. "You really told Sebastian that?"

"I did," Rosier replies. Michael sighs.

"Why is everyone here so stupid?" he asks, directing his question toward the ceiling.

"Says the Death Eater in the room," replies Harry wryly.

"Former Death Eater. I, at least, have recovered from stupidity. The rest of you are still afflicted with it."

"Are we?" asks Harry, amused.

"Yes. Severely. Particularly, you." For the briefest moment, Harry thinks Lestrange is talking to him, until he notices that Michael's eyes are locked on Shadow. "You really told Sebastian—your cousin, your friend, and an empath to top it all off—that how you felt was no concern of his?"

"I told him that whether or not I felt anything was no concern of his."

"For the – Fine. Be stupid and miserable in your damned impenetrable solitude."

"I'll have you know that I'm not miserable."

"Wait until you have to marry," Michael mutters, returning to reading The Quibbler.

* * *

Ok. More soon. Really soon. As in this month. So, please continue to be dears and review. You'll be hearing from me shortly.

Love,

J. Silver


	27. Confessions of a Spy

A/N: This one might be revised in the near future, but I wanted to post it anyway.

Thank you to cdlowe8, Shiro Ryuu, Amy, Zelphie, Bex Drake, Madd Girl, Shadowed Seraph, Lucius Sikilmituile, gorgeousbowneyes, El, Kumak, lilylupin, angel, jazzysue, Xenia Marvolo, Purple Raveness, Novocain, spinnerofdark, Mirokuluver's Friend, ura hd, louey31, sottychan, Black Kymera, DragonMistress333, Dragonist, alliekatgal, Kittendragon, TanyaPotter, and Firedragon.

* * *

"Which one next?" asks Evan. Harry squints at a piece of parchment with instructions written in a hurried_-_looking script.

"The green and the purple. Half the green, then the purple, then the other half of the green," he reads as he hands Evan two vials.

"Harry?"

"H'm?" Harry doesn't look up, turning the paper sideways a bit to see if the legibility improves.

"This isn't purple; it's lilac." Harry swears, and looks through the stand of healing potions that Gabriel has set up at Lucius' bedside. He finds a purple one and passes it to Shadow, who smiles.

"How can you be so goddamned chipper at four in the morning?" Harry croaks, tiredness creeping into his voice the way the pale light of dawn is creeping into the corners of the bedroom.

"I told you, proper Rosiers do not need to sleep." Harry looks at Rosier with a mixture of disbelief and envy. "But since I happen to like sleep, I took a seven-hour nap this afternoon."

"Damn you. Why didn't I think of that?" Harry grumbles.

'You can nap now, if you'd like. I'll wake you up for the next dose."

"No, it's ok. I can hold out," Harry says, yawning and settling into one of the chairs that has been permanently stationed in Lucius' bedroom.

The next thing Harry remembers is Shadow shaking him awake a half-hour later. They repeat this cycle several times before Gabriel arrives a little after sunrise. Gabriel runs a quick series of diagnostic spells on Lucius. There are dark circles under his eyes and it looks like he hasn't slept since Lucius was poisoned, but he is humming under his breath.

"How long do we have to do this?" Harry asks him. Gabriel stops humming.

"Until he dies or gets strong enough that we can give him stronger healing potions," he answers seriously.

"How long?" Harry repeats. Gabriel runs a hand through his curly hair.

"Could be a couple of weeks. Could be a few months."

"And once he's stronger?"

"Then it could be a matter of days. It's difficult to say right now."

Gabriel eyes Harry. "How long have you been here?"

"Since midnight. Gave him his potions on the hour and on the half-hour, just like your instructions said what I could read of them, anyway," Harry says. Gabriel checks the stand of potions.

"Oh, good. I trusted that Evan would be able to distinguish lilac from purple. But can you distinguish lilac from lavender?" He asks. From his doctor's bag, he draws two vials that appear almost identical to Harry.

"Just label the damn vials," snaps Harry. Gabriel grins and taps the vials with his wand. Neatly printed labels appear on both of them. He places them in the stand and draws out more vials to replace the other empty ones.

"Take a break, Harry," he says over his shoulder.

"I'm alright," Harry insists, though his eyes are burning in the early morning light.

"You could have fooled me. I'm going to be here for a while, conducting more tests. Go take a break. Get breakfast, at least.."

Harry wanders to the dining room, where he finds Evan nibbling a piece of toast. Harry sinks into a chair and reaches for the teapot. "Allow me," Evan says. He flicks his wand and the teapot pours itself into Harry's cup. "Cream? Sugar?"

"No cream. Two sugars. Please," Harry adds as an afterthought. Two cubes of sugar land into Harry's cup and dissolve instantly. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it, please." Evan reaches for a grapefruit half. Harry swallows his tea. The warmth of it going down seems to ease some of the tension he has accumulated in the night.

"Shadow," Harry begins, "can I ask you something personal?"

"Of course, Harry. I consider you to be family." Rosier's tone is warm. Harry is surprised.

"Are you ever lonely?" he asks, thinking of Michael's comments from the previous day.

"No," Rosier replies quickly. "Before you went to Hogwarts, were you lonely?" Harry thinks back to those days before he knew he was a wizard—the days when he slept in a cupboard under the stairs.

"I didn't know any other way of life."

"Neither do I."

"Will you marry?"

"As heir, I'm obligated to."

"Who will you marry?"

"That is a very good question. There are a limited number of women meeting the Rosier criteria for marriage."

"There's a set criteria?" asks Harry, surprised.

"Of course. There tends to be for every family, doesn't there? Even if it's just 'witch highly preferred.' The Rosier criteria includes lineage, politics, yearly income, intelligence, and height."

"Height?"

"The Rosier line has always been described as 'tall and handsome.' We didn't get that way by accident."

"What does that leave you with?"

"Pureblood for at least 3 generations, not the kind of person to advocate Muggle hunting, but the kind of person who takes pride in our culture. Extraordinary wealth is not necessary; breeding is more important. Must be intelligent and has to be taller than average," Evan recites, seemingly from memory.

"Can you have children?" Harry asks. Rosier halts, his spoon frozen over his grapefruit.

"I beg your pardon?" he says. Harry, realizing that he may have just implied that Rosier is a eunuch, blushes.

"Er—I mean, when you take on the form of a woman, can you bear children?"

"Are you suggesting that I should go husband hunting?" The look on Rosier's face was one of pure amusement.

"And why not? You make quite the refined pureblood lady. I might even be tempted to marry you," James says, striding into the dining room.

"That is true. Even the Dark Lord was taken by your charms," Michael adds, following James. Michael carries a copy of Witch Weekly folded under his arm. Harry shakes his head over Lestrange's inexplicable taste in reading materials.

At the mention of Voldemort, Rosier wrinkles his nose in a small gesture of disdain. "What? You-know-who didn't know how to show a girl a good time?" James asks, grinning evilly. He doesn't sit, but busies himself with making a cup of coffee.

"I don't know about that. The rumor was that the Dark Lord was quite obsessed with producing an heir with his lovely consort," Lestrange says to Harry in a confidential stage-whisper.

"I hate you both," Evan says cordially, finishing off his grapefruit. He smiles a little.

"C'mon, don't you want to be known as Rosier, the Only One to have Bedded Lord Voldemort?" Lestrange teases, taking the cup of coffee James had prepared for himself. Rosier's smile disappears, replaced by the blank look that signals his refusal to argue.

"I'm not talking about this," he says, suddenly serious. Lestrange drops his magazine in shock. Harry is glad that Michael didn't drop the coffee.

"No! Evan, you didn't really!" James exclaims, grabbing another cup.

"How could you? He was half-snake and half-dead!" Lestrange says, his face screwed up in distaste.

"Ugh. Thank you, Michael, I needed that bit to help my stomach settle," James says, his face turning a delicate shade of green as he stirs his coffee.

"What did you look like?" Harry asks. He didn't think Voldemort was human enough to feel emotions like lust or attachment. He finds himself curious as to what kind of woman Rosier could have possibly created to appeal to Voldemort's taste.

"Did you ever see what my mother looked like in her glory days—before Azkaban?" Michael asks, magazine once again in hand.

"Yes," Harry replies, thinking of the trial he witnessed through Dumbledore's penseive.

"Imagine a woman within that same mold—except way better looking." Somehow, Harry is not surprised to hear that.

"Why imagine?" asks a woman's voice—dark, rich, velvety. Harry turns to look. She is, Harry thinks, the sort of witch Tom Riddle would have imagined to be his mother. She is remarkably beautiful. Her long hair was thick and such a deep shade of black that the highlights appeared to be purple in the sun. Her eyes were mesmerizing—an extremely rare shade of violet. Unlike Bellatrix, her bearing is not haughty, but regal. She smiles and Harry's heart quickens. Harry looks away and drains the rest of his tea.

"You are scary," Harry says under his breath, his voice filled with awe at Rosier's gifts. From the corner of his eye, he sees Evan give a slight bow and return to himself.

"I love it when you do that," Lestrange says with a smile. "Anyway, we're headed up to assist Gabriel. Sebastian says he'll be along after lunch."

Michael and James leave. Harry turns to Evan immediately.

"Did you really—" Evan nods. "How could you?"

"He performed a glamour—not dissimilar to the one you wore as Jonathan Scryer. He made himself look like Tom Riddle again."

"For you?" Harry asks incredulously. Rosier gives a derisive snort.

"For himself, more like. I imagine he wouldn't have enjoyed himself much if I shuddered at his touch."

"Did the glamour work?"

"It was convincing, if that's what you mean. I gave things a push with a moderate lust charm. Made it easier, less obvious than a bottle of Firewhiskey."

"Did you ever become—"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"I arranged to have a miscarriage." Rosier's voice is flat, emotionless.

Harry contemplates this in silence. He finds it hard to take in. Voldemort's touch had always caused Harry excruciating amounts of pain. He can hardly imagine what it must have been like for Rosier to have sex with him. "Remind me to submit your name for Order of Merlin, First Class for Extraordinary Service in the Second War Against Voldemort," Harry says at length.

"You think I want an award to commemorate the deed?" Rosier snaps. He puts his head in his hands, his hair covering his face. It is the first time Harry has ever seen Rosier less than perfectly controlled. He gives a great sigh.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's not a deed I'm proud of," Rosier says, by way of explanation.

"We all have done things we are not proud of," Harry replies quietly.

"Yes, but how many of us screwed Lord Voldemort to gain a place at his side?" Evan retorts bitterly.

"How did you do it? What did you say to him?" Harry asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I told him that I was Pureblood, that my parents were killed, that I was adopted by Muggles who were afraid of me and abused me, that I hated them, and that I killed the man in a rage after he abused me for the last time. I had false memories and a few trinkets to prove my story."

"I'll bet Voldemort loved it."

"He did."

Silence fell again.

"Harry?" Harry looks up to see Evan, pale and miserable. "Don't tell Sebastian."

"Why not?"

"He wouldn't understand. He would say that the baby was an innocent." There was a time when Harry would have agreed with Sebastian, but Harry has some idea of what it would have cost Evan to raise a child of Lord Voldemort. Part of him mourns the child, but a greater part of him aches for Evan .

"Surely no one could have expected you to keep a child like that—Lord Voldemort's child."

"I couldn't give him his perfect Pureblood heir. It would have been like letting him win."

"Harry? Evan? Oh, wonderful, food." With that, Gabriel wanders in, grabs a muffin and shoves it in his mouth.

"That was charming, Gabe," Rosier says.

"To hell with charming. I haven't eaten since I saw you lot last."

"Busy times at the hospital?"

"You're still practicing?" Harry asks, surprised. The same antiwerewolf legislation that had made it nearly impossible for Remus Lupin to find employment also banned werewolves from the medical profession. All of Gabriel's training as a healer and a field surgeon had become virtually meaningless after Gabriel was bitten by Greyback.

"I have private clients. Mostly family. I haven't been working at St. Mungo's, though. When I haven't been with you lot, I've been under observation by their staff. They're debating on whether or not to pronounce me 'cured' of my lycanthropy." Gabriel rolls his eyes at the word 'cured.' "Even if they don't pronounce me cured, your friend the Minister just pushed a bill through the Wizengamot to repeal the anti-werewolf laws. It was all over the Prophet this morning."

"That's wonderful."

"It is. Next time you see him, tell him that if he ever needs a personal physician, I'm his man—wolf—vampire—whatever," Gabriel says, grinning.

"Sure thing," Harry says, remembering that he is overdue for a letter to Ron anyway. Gabriel grabs another muffin.

"I'm going home; I need to sleep. Oh, letter came for you, Harry." Gabriel tosses a sealed letter at Harry, who catches it clumsily before it ends up in his breakfast.

Harry opens it and when the signature catches his eye, he breaks out into a grin.

_Harry—_

_You haven't written, mate. Can't say that I'm surprised. I suppose you've heard about the news. Tell Gabriel that I'm sorry it took me so long to remember our old friends. The full bill of rights of werewolves and our half-human friends is on its way as soon as I can bully the Wizengamot into agreeing. My staff (and Hermione) are working on it as I write. We're calling it the Hagrid-Lupin Bill._

_I hope your friend is recovering well. If there's something I can do to speed the process, let me know._

_-- Ron_

"Excellent," Harry says. He looks up at Rosier, who has gone back to nibbling toast. He has a far_-_away expression on his face. "Evan?" Rosier blinks and turns to look at Harry almost reluctantly. "I think I understand. Thanks for telling me."

"Thank you for listening. I know you didn't need one more wartime horror story"

"For you, I could handle one more," Harry says. Rosier smiles.

* * *

Lucius' fate will be decided in the next chapter, which will be posted sometime next month. Meanwhile, you know the drill: review!

Love,

J. Silver


	28. Smiling at Grief

A/N: I am extremely tired and worn out, so I will simply say thank you very much to all those who reviewed last chapter and welcome to you newcomers.

* * *

"He sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief," Lestrange says, finally putting down his copy of Witch Weekly and grinning at Harry, who starts from his reverie at Lucius' bedside.

"What?" Harry asks, confused.

"That's Shakespeare for 'Don't you have anything else to do, loser?' Seriously, Potter, are you watching Lucius heal cell by cell? Don't you have hobbies?"

"No," Harry replies shortly.

"Didn't you play Quidditch or something?"

"I haven't played Quidditch in years," Harry replies. He hasn't played since the war started. There was no time for Quidditch between battles with Death Eaters. After the war, Quidditch had seemed empty, so trvial. He hadn't missed it really.

"But you can still fly, can't you?" Michael asks, a bit of a challenge in his voice.

That Harry does miss. It's been far too long since Harry has flown. The longing must be visible on Harry's face, because Lestrange smirks. "C'mon, Potter. I'll race you." Their eyes meet, green on green and then the two of them are running through the halls of Malfoy Manor, much to the dismay of several portraits. Lestrange leads the way to the manor grounds, but once Harry has summoned a broom to his hand, Harry is clearly in the lead.

Some things are in one's blood. Flying is in Harry's and he takes to the air like an exotic bird. He dives, swoops, and rolls as if Dobby's mad bludger was on his tail, but this time there is no sense of danger, just exhilaration. Lestrange keeps pace, even echoing some of Harry's acrobatics. Harry is momentarily surprised, but he then he remembers hearing from someone that Lestrange had played chaser for Durmstang.

"So that's the famous Potter flying that I've heard so much about," Michael says, once they have landed. "Impressive, I must say." Harry grins ear to ear. He knows he must look ridiculous next to the cool Lestrange, but he can't help himself.

"Thanks. You're pretty good yourself," Harry says truthfully. Lestrange dismisses this with a wave of his hand.

"I'm a hobbyist. If you didn't have a career cut out for you in destroying evil, you could've played professionally." Harry listens for bitterness or sarcasm in Lestrange's voice, but there is none. There has rarely been any detectable bitterness or sarcasm or anything of the sort in Michael's voice when he has spoken to Harry.

"Why don't you hate me?" Harry asks suddenly. It's Lestrange's turn to break out in a grin.

"What, you mean the vanquishing my lord and killing my mother and landing my father in St. Mungo's Ward for Incurable Maladies thing?" he asks, heading across the lawn to the manor.

"Yeah… that," Harry says, shifting the broom on his shoulder and struggling to match Lestange's long, easy stride. Lestrange shrugs.

"How can I hate you for that? I deserted Voldemort before the war ended."

"Why did you leave?" Harry asks. The Order had never been able to figure out the reason for Lestrange's abrupt abandonment of Voldemort just when he was at the height of his career.

"I was there the night he did—what he did to James. I begged him to stop; I couldn't bear to watch anymore. He hit me—gave me this," Lestrange says, pointing to the scar across his cheekbone. "Then, he tortured me— hit me with the Cruciatus long enough that I couldn't move. I listened to him torture James until James couldn't scream anymore. I thought that silence meant that James was dead. I couldn't help him. I was a coward when James needed me most."

"You found the courage to leave Voldemort," Harry says quietly. Michael's bark of laughter is derisive.

"I found the courage to crawl into a hole to die." He pulls up his sleeves to reveal a network of silver-white scars that run almost decoratively up his forearms. "Gabriel found me. Said that he could smell me bleeding from halfway across the Forbidden Forest."

He lowers his sleeves with a flick of his wrists. "When you serve him, you give everything and you hope that it's enough to protect the things you care about. Voldemort left Draco alone, knowing that he would lose Lucius if he caused anything to happen to Lucius' son."

"You said that Voldemort thought the idea of the Malfoys and me—"

"Yes, he thought that you were the only thing tying Draco to the other side. He didn't actually realize that Draco had strength of conviction. Draco was proud to be Pureblood, but he didn't think that non-Purebloods should eliminated. He most definitely didn't approve of Voldemort using Pureblood pride to further his cause. He thought Voldemort only succeeding in cheapening Pureblood heritage, but you know, the Gaunts had been crazy for generations before Voldemort. Riddle just happened to be good-looking and brilliant, but he was still a nutter," Michael says. Harry agrees wholeheartedly.

"The whole lot of them thought they were so wonderful because they were descended from Salazaar Slytherin," Michael continues. "But you can be proud of blood to the point of madness when you don't have anything else, and that was them. All they had was the blood in their veins and they never let anyone forget it."

"That's insightful," Harry says dryly. Michael chuckles.

"Hindsight is 20/20, isn't that what they say? When I was younger, I thought I had to be a death eater. I thought it was what Lestranges were supposed to do."

"What cured you of that delusion?"

"Becoming a death eater… and meeting my parents." Harry looks at Lestrange curiously. "It wasn't until I met them that I started to wonder what kind of parents would abandon their only child to serve Voldemort. I had no love for them, or for the master they served. Why should I hate you for destroying them when I hated them myself?"

Michael shrugs elegantly. "Of course, you destroyed them all before I took my own revenge, but why should I begrudge you that when you were so much more thorough than I could have ever hoped to be?" he asks with a smile.

Harry doesn't know what he could possibly say to that, so he settles for looking at Lestrange as if he just sprouted a second head.

"I am, if nothing else, a practical man, Potter," Michael says in his own defense.

"You're also a bit of a nutter," Harry retorts.

Lestrange laughs. Harry cracks a small smile.

They encounter James in the hall. At the sight of James standing at the foot of the stairs, with his long hair loose and his face looking at once sweet and somber, Michael's expression softens immediately. Harry tries to ignore the slight, jealous wrench of his heart. "Harry, you have a visitor," James says.

"I have a what?"

"A visitor—in Lucius' study."

Harry swallows hard before opening the door to Lucius study. He has no time to process the interior of the room before he is caught up in a rib-crushing hug.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry!"

"Hermione?" Harry asks in disbelief. She looks as they did when they were eleven and he was about to go face Voldemort—her face frantic with worry. She hugs him again.

"Harry, I'm sorry. Ron explained everything and—I had no right to say what I did. It was mean and hateful and I'm sorry," she says in a rush.

"What did you come here for?"

"I came to make it up to you," she says simply.

"Hermione, now is not the time—"

"I went to see Ginny," she continues, ignoring him. "You know that she works for St. Mungo's, in the intensive care unit?" No, Harry had not known that about Ginny. "Well, Ron told me about Malfoy and I went to see Ginny this morning and she gave me these." Hermione pulled from her purse four small vials wrapped in a navy blue scarf for safekeeping.

"What are those?" He can feel his hopes rising almost despite himself.

"Ginny says that they've been using them since the war. Of course, they've been refined since then, but she says that they work where other healing potions won't. She says they're particularly effective at repairing damage due to poisons." Harry's mouth goes dry. He swallows, hard.

"Why?" he asks. His voice is thick.

"Because I can't stand the thought of you losing anyone else that's important to you—even if it is Lucius Malfoy." She presses the package into Harry's hands. "Take them. He's supposed to receive one every six hours. Do not mix these with other potions. After he's taken all of them, you should be able to use healing magic on him as necessary."

"Mione—" Harry stares at the vials as if they are the best present he's ever received. Then he gapes at Hermione. She laughs.

"Harry, it's worth everything to see the look on your face right now. Go on!"

"Hermione, what about McGonagall?" Harry asks, remembering that he hasn't been at Hogwarts in three days.

"Don't worry about that. I told her that you were sick. I even got Ginny to write a note. Now go. You have an invalid to look after." Harry cradles the vials to his chest.

"This is brilliant, really," he says, trying to think of more words of gratitude.

"It's no more than what you deserve," she says.

"What I deserve?" he echoes.

"A shot at happiness, Harry."

She beams at him and in that moment, Harry loves her very much.

* * *

You know the drill. Review!

Love,

J. Silver


	29. Playing the Tart

A/N: This chapter was posted in a hurry. Don't be surprised if it ends up being revised in the near future.

The song that appears in this chapter is "Possession" by Sarah McLachlan. The inspiration from this chapter came from "Until the End of the World" by U2 and "Sweetest Perfection" by Depeche Mode.

Thanks so much to everyone who continues to review this story. Reviews encourage me to dust off my keyboard and get back to writing, so please keep them coming.

* * *

The sound of glass breaking is followed by a tense silence and a withering stare from Gabriel. "Sorry," Michael apologizes rather lamely, looking at the remnants of a vial of potion that had shattered on the floor of Lucius' bedroom. Gabriel closes his eyes and takes three deep breaths before he explodes.

"Get out, all of you! I am tired of tripping over all of you any time I want to get near my patient."

"But—" Sebastian begins.

"No, Sebastian, I know that you are all concerned about Lucius, but at this rate, your concern will kill him. Get out!"

"But—" Lestrange starts.

"You can come back in the morning. By then, I will have given Lucius all of the potions we need and none of you will be able to get in the way."

"I thought you weren't supposed to be giving him any potions but the ones Weasley sent over," Lestrange says, trying to read the label of the smashed vial.

"These are clarifying potions. They will remove the last traces of the other potions I've given to Lucius—unless you want to wait a week for them all to clear out of his system. Then, I can give him Miss Weasley's potions," Gabriel explains, vanishing the bits of glass with a wave of his wand.

"But, Gabriel—" James tries.

"Stay if you'd like, but I will bite the next person who drops anything or gets in my way." Gabriel snarls a little, showing just enough of his eyeteeth to give his threat some weight. Harry, Sebastian, James and Michael exchange tired and nervous looks. "Fine," Evan agrees. "We shall leave you to it. I think we could all use some sleep anyway," he says.

There is no sleeping for Harry. He spends an hour staring at the canopy of the bed and then takes to pacing. After a while, he begins to count his steps. At the three hundredth step, there is a knock on his door.

"Come in." James opens Harry's door with a flourish.

"Can't sleep either, can you?" he asks. Harry shakes his head.

"Come on, you," Michael says, grabbing Harry by the hand.

"What gives?" Harry asks.

"We are going out," Michael says.

"We are?" Harry asks, bemused.

"None of us can sleep and Gabriel has just forbidden us, on pain of a very gory death, to enter Lucius' room until tomorrow morning, so we have decided to leave the manor entirely," James explains.

"Dare I ask?"

"Clubbing," says Michael.

"I have nothing to wear," Harry protests. James smiles.

"I was hoping you would say that," the redhead says. Harry gets a sinking feeling in his stomach.

The five of them meet in Lucius' study. Rosier has the nerve to look quite refreshed and dapper in a slim-cut Muggle suit and a brocade vest. James and Michael are dressed as debauchery incarnate. Harry is wearing his favorite shirt with many zippers and a pair of matching pants that James had conjured up from seemingly nowhere. Sebastian looks as Harry has never seen him. Dressed as he was in a long white shirt with a leather corset over it, pants that Harry had a fleeting suspicion were painted on, and a pair of boots with high, slender heels and lots of straps and buckles, one glance at Sebastian causes Harry loses all ability to think as his supply of blood is rerouted from his brain.

It seemed like a travesty to call him "Angel," but never had he looked less like what Harry had come to know as "Sebastian."

"Shall we?" Sebastian asks, tossing floo powder into the fireplace. Before anyone can reply, he steps through and vanishes.

"Did everyone just see what I thought I just saw?" Michael asks, after a moment of very stunned silence.

"Sebastian dressed to get molested? Yeah, I think we all saw that," James says with a grin. Harry sighs.

"How am I supposed to chaperone that?" he asks, with a glance at Shadow, who looks astonished for what Harry is sure is the first time in his life.

"I think you'll need to spank him for bad behavior," says James, still grinning. Harry glares at him.

"You are so very unhelpful."

"I do try."

xxxxxxxx

Sebastian is dancing… or at least that's what Harry chooses to call it when Sebastian is swaying his hips in time to the music. Sebastian is also singing in a much lower voice than Harry was used to. His voice is husky, intimate, and it did nothing to help Harry's concentration, but it isn't Harry that Sebastian is focusing on.

Sebastian crooks a finger in invitation to Shadow, who, unable to refuse, joins Sebastian on the dance floor. Sebastian's arms encircle around Shadow's neck, hips still grinding, his lips close to Shadow's ear as he sang along to the music in the club:

"_And I would be the one  
To hold you down  
Kiss you so hard  
I'll take your breath away"_

Harry feels for Rosier as he watches Sebastian work on him. It was the most transparent Rosier has ever been, his expressions playing across his face for anyone to read: lust, yearning, pain. One of Sebastian's ungloved hands slides into Rosier's hair. With the fingers of his other hand, Sebastian traces the curve of Shadow's jaw. Shadow looks physically pained as Sebastian touches him. His gaze turns to a look of pure worship as Sebastian's fingers brush against his lips.

"_Nothing stands between us here and I won't be denied…" _

Rosier leans forward and kisses Sebastian as if he has wanted to do it his entire life. Maybe he has. Harry watches as Sebastian first tenses and then melts into Rosier's kiss. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Shadow releases Sebastian and vanishes into the crowd.

"_And after I wipe away your tears, just close your eyes…"_

"Watch Sebastian," Harry calls to James as he dives into the crowd after Shadow. He finds Shadow in the alley directly behind the club. Thinking that Shadow is about to apparate, Harry tenses.  
Instead, Evan simply collapses against a wall. He changes several times in quick succession: male, female, young, old, and finally back to himself. He looks calmer, but he is breathing harder than normal.

"Are you ok? Do you need to go to a doctor?"

"What?" Shadow asks, looking at Harry blankly. "Oh. No, changing so quickly in succession is uncomfortable. It also requires a lot of focus. It calms me down when I get…overexcited," he explains.

"I see. Is that what happened just now? Sebastian got you… overexcited?"_ Damn_, Harry thinks, _that was more awkward than the eunuch comment_.

"He already has me wrapped around his finger. He has all of us, really, but that wasn't enough. He had to prove it. He just had to. Damn him!" Harry admits Sebastian was cruel to expose so brutally what Rosier had taken such pains to hide—to lay his heart bare for everyone to see. Shadow undergoes another series of quick transformations. When he is himself again, he is shaking.

"Whoa," says Harry. "Don't do that again. It's scary." Shadow chuckles and nods in agreement "Now do you want to tell me what's going on or are we going to spend all night keeping the garbage company?" Harry asks, settling down next to Rosier. Rosier stares blankly at the wall in front of them for so long that Harry is starting to worry that something may be seriously wrong when Rosier finally speaks: "Did you ever want something so badly that you were terrified of what would happen if you ever got it?"

Harry nods and waits for Shadow to continue, but that seems to be all that Shadow has to say for the moment. Harry waits for a few minutes.

"You know, you're not going to taint him by loving him. His innocence—"

"Damn his innocence. I'm less worried about what I'll do to him than I am about what he'll do to me," Rosier says darkly.

"I was going to say a lot of his innocence is contrived."

"No, it isn't. It's that bitterness that's contrived. The iciness and the cool cynicism-- that's the contrivance. It's the mask Sebastian puts up to remind us that he's capable of taking care of himself. He pulled this little stunt now because angry at me."

"Angry at you for what?"

"Because he can't read me. Because I won't let him read me."

"Why?"

"All my life has been deception and secrecy. There's never been anyone in the world I couldn't deceive if I chose: children have taken me for their mothers, wives for their husbands, Voldemort for his followers. Sebastian is an empath and a Legilimens. There would be no keeping anything from him, once I let him in. He'll always know me."

"And you're afraid to let him in." Rosier nods. "Evan, the war is over. Voldemort is dead. You're not in danger anymore. Perhaps it is time that you let yourself be seen and known."

"What if he doesn't like what he sees?" Evan whispers. Harry reaches for his hand and squeezes it. Rosier returns the squeeze with a grip like iron.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do about Lucius?" Rosier asks, after a moment. Harry sighs.

"He wants me to be Draco's heir."

"It's what Draco wanted, isn't it?"

"I guess. He didn't even tell me what the brooch was about. He just gave it to me, said that he was giving up his birthright and asked me to wear it—for my own safety. He didn't mention that it was a contract."

"Would you have accepted it, if he had told you?"

"No, which is probably why he didn't say anything."

"What do you want?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it does. If you don't want to be the Malfoy heir, you could certainly argue that you were duped into accepting a contract unawares. If you do want to be the Malfoy heir, then all you have to do is accept Draco's gift and Lucius' hand."

"Like in marriage?"

"No, as in a handshake. It's the simplest way to conclude such an agreement: you shake on it. With the right exchange of words, it's magically and legally binding."

"What would it mean to be the Malfoy heir?"

"What does it mean to be the heir of any family? I'm sure that Lucius could fill you in on the specifics, but generally, you would be the public face of the Malfoy family and responsible for its honor, its properties, its wealth, and its continuation."

"If I refuse this offer, will Lucius ever speak to me again?"

"Of course he would. How else could he convince you to change your mind?"

"What are you two doing sitting in a pile of garbage?" Lestrange asks, looking absolutely baffled.

"Talking," Evan replies.

"Does trash make a particularly good audience?" Michael inquires, wrinkling his nose.

"I don't know, I always thought you were a good listener," Harry replies, teasing.

"In case you haven't noticed, your opinion on breeding is not worth considering, Potter. Your education in such matters is woefully inadequate. If you are quite done regaling the rubbish bins with tales of glory days, shall we get out of here? I'm having quite a hard time keeping an eye on both Angel and Baby."

"We'll be along in a minute," Evan says, standing. Michael nods and heads back into the club.

"You should tell Sebastian how you feel," Harry says, rising to his feet.

"And you should tell Lucius how you feel." Harry shoots Rosier a look of severe doubt. Rosier chuckles.

"If the war is over for me, then it's over for you, too," he says.

"Is that a threat?"

"Most definitely. If I have to move on, I'm going to drag you with me, kicking and screaming," Rosier promises.

"I think I liked you better when you were estranged," Harry replies with a bit of a frown. Rosier smiles.

* * *

The more reviews I get the faster I write. That's my theory, anyway. Shall we test it? Review, darlings!

Love,

J. Silver


	30. Codex Augustine

A/N: Ran into a little snag while writing: I wrote most of chapter 31 and then had ti go back and write chapter 30. Got a bit ahead of myself there!

As I am short for time, thanks will be posted with the next chapter, which will be posted this month, as soon as I have edited it to my satisfaction or I get tired of looking at it. Meanwhile, thank you bunches to those of you who leave reviews and remind me that this story does exist and people enjoy it, so I should continue it.

* * *

Harry wakes at dawn the next morning and slips into the Malfoy Library. "Query: Phrase "Malfoy heir'; additional keywords: designation, duties, and responsibilities. Search all documents. Begin," he says to no one and nothing in particular.

"Results listed in default fashion?" inquires the disembodied voice of the search charm on the library.

"Results listed in chronological order with most recent documents listed first."

"Search main library only?"

"Search secondary libraries as well."

"Complete results available in one hour."

Harry decides to have breakfast while the library sifts through its documents. Harry has to admit that the search engine spell is a magnificent charm. He only wishes that it had been invented soon enough to save him hours of time spent in the library with Hermione and Ron when he was younger. It had been Draco who had introduced the spell to Harry at the beginning of the war. After much pressing, Harry had finally gotten Draco to admit that he had not found the charm; he had invented the charm, basing it off Muggle computer search engines. This of course, had lead Harry to inquire why Draco knew anything about Muggle computers and search engines.

Draco had looked at Harry with disdain and said that his dislike of Muggles did not imply ignorance of them or their ways. Besides, all the stumbling and puttering about that wizards usually do when forced to deal with the Muggle world was unseemly, and it wouldn't do for a Malfoy to appear unseemly, if it could be helped at all. Furthermore, Harry was told, wizards in the Muggle world stick out like sore thumbs, which removed all strategic value from slipping into the Muggle world to hide.

Hermione had taken to the search engine charm with great alacrity and had actually started to work with Draco and Madam Pince to have one cast on the Hogwarts Library. Harry had tried it a few times while working on his lesson plans. It worked well, and Draco was to be credited as the inventor of the spell in Hogwarts, A History and a few other publications Harry couldn't remember. He supposed that he would have to become familiar with those titles, if he decided to accept Lucius and Draco's offer.

The table is set for brunch. The others are already at the table. Evan is the only one who looks fully awake. He is drinking a cup of tea and reading the morning paper with an enviable aura of calm. Harry wonders, however, how much of that calm was real and how much of it was sheer composure. He is beginning to suspect that much of Rosier's calm is an incredible self-possession. Rosier looks as though last night had not happened, as if his desire for Sebastian had not been flagrantly displayed for all of their little circle to see. Sebastian, for his part, looks pensive. James is making a cup of coffee for a very tired-looking Michael.

Harry sits in an empty chair to Rosier's right and reaches for the pitcher of orange juice. Rosier swears.

"What?" Michael asks groggily from across the table. Sebastian peers over Rosier's shoulder to read the headline that caught Rosier's attention, then passes the paper to Michael, who reads:

"Harry Potter Spotted in Muggle London."

"Fuck me," Harry mutters into his glass of orange juice. James smiles at him from across the table.

"Don't tempt me," he says with a wink. "Well, what does the article say, Michael, since you insist upon hogging the paper?"

"Nothing else, really. It's just a replay of Potter's greatest hits: surviving the killing curse, TriWizard Tournament, defeat of You-Know-Who, mysterious disappearance. The article speculates that this sudden reappearance could mean that Harry is ready to rejoin the wizarding world. Blah, blah, blah. No mention of us, Lucius or anything interesting except for this bit about Harry 'soldiering on bravely after the sudden death of his partner Draco Malfoy, who was killed by friendly fire in a tragic accident.' Blech."

"Friendly fire, my broomstick." James mutters. Harry slips into silence.

"You know, I'm surprised they recognized Harry with all of that hair covering his scar and without his glasses."

"I bet they didn't," Gabriel says, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and reaching around James to grab a piece of fruit from the center of the table. "Every now and then the Prophet likes to print these articles to up readership and to remind people that Harry is still out there, somewhere. Notice, they didn't even use a current picture of him. That's one of those damn war propaganda photos."

"Maybe who ever tipped off the Prophet didn't have a camera," Sebastian suggested.

"Unlikely," Gabriel said. "If he was in a Muggle club and recognized Harry, then he probably had one of those mini phone things that all the Muggleborns are carrying around all the time. Don't all of those things have cameras now?"

"But the timing, Gabriel—"

"Is uncanny, I know, but they publish one of these every six months or so and they have been overdue for one. I wouldn't worry about it. If they knew any real facts, they would love to gossip about Harry Potter falling in with the old guard and possibly becoming tainted by pureblood politics."

"Is that what they will say if I become the Malfoy heir?"

A dead silence falls over the table. "Are you really considering accepting the title?" Sebastian asks. His tone of voice is undecipherable. Everyone else at the table eyes Harry curiously.

"I am considering it. I'm currently having the library do a search for information relevant to the title," Harry says, looking down at his plate. "You wouldn't mind, would you?"

"Of course not," Sebastian says. "I never really wanted to be the Malfoy heir to begin with. I only accepted the position when asked because I knew I was Uncle's last resort." Sebastian's tone is warm and when Harry steals a glance at him, he sees nothing in Sebastian's face to contradict that warmth. In fact, Sebastian looks pleased.

"May I offer some friendly advice?" Lestrange asks gently. Harry nods.

"Don't look down when someone asks you a question. It's very ill-suited to someone who is heir to the Potter, Black and perhaps the Malfoy families. It is also very unbecoming for the Man Who Killed Voldemort to flinch at a simple question."

"I am heir to the Black family?"

"Well, yes, you are Sirius Black's designated heir. You've certainly inherited the family estate—and you can keep it," Michael adds when Harry opens his mouth. "I'm having enough problems keeping the old Lestrange place together. Grimmauld Place is probably in not much better shape. Bet the whole place is infested with doxies. Even if it weren't, I'd let you keep it just so I wouldn't have to deal with that portrait of Aunt Walburga."

"Now, now, Aunt Walburga was quite fond of you, if I recall," Evan teases.

"Yes, well, she was fond of you, too—until Uncle Alphard took you in. Who knew Uncle Alphard was still alive? Everyone thought he was dead until your father's will was read and Uncle Alphard showed up to take custody of you."

"That was rather the point," Evan replies dryly.

"A stunt like faking his own death only made him the perfect guardian for our Evan, didn't it?" says James.

"If you become the Malfoy heir, there will be lots of gossip, yes," Rosier says abruptly, getting back to the matter at hand. "The most malicious of the gossip should be turned aside by saying that it was Draco's last wish. Public approval for Draco is rather high. He is viewed as something of a tragic hero by most."

"I disagree. Yes, the public has decided to remember Draco fondly. If it is revealed that he was killed saving Potter's life, well, the public will probably remember him still more fondly. However, stating that it was Draco's last wish that Harry be his successor will fuel speculation as to the real nature of the relationship between Draco and Harry, at best. At worst, the public may think he is being bought off or brainwashed by Lucius in an attempt to make wipe some of the mud off the Malfoy name," Gabriel says.

"Oh, how I hate politics," Sebastian says lightly, buttering his toast.

"You and me, both," Harry says, feeling a massive headache coming on. Sebastian gives him a sympathetic smile.

"I wouldn't worry about machinations as such. Lucius will be more than happy to handle that end of things until you are adept enough to handle them yourself, and you will be, sooner than you think. You, Harry James Potter, are more cunning than you let on," James says with a conspiratorial wink.

/

Harry dumps a load of books onto the table in front of Rosier. "The next batch," he says, wiping dust of the front of his shirt.

"These are useless," Evan says, tapping a small stack in on his left hand side. Harry picks up that stack of books and sets it on a table for the house elves to shelve later. He looks at the search results and for the titles of the next books and goes to search for the telltale glow that the search engine spell casts upon documents that matched Harry's query.

He is returning with one arm full of books and the other arm full of scrolls when he hears Sebastian talking to Evan. Harry ducks back behind a bookshelf and wonders how it is that he keeps managing to arrive just in time to eavesdrop on Evan and Sebastian's private arguments.

"Evan, talk to me." Harry feels a stab of longing at the tone in Sebastian's voice. He shakes it off, reminding himself that it is only Sebastian's empathy that has that effect. There is a determined silence in reply.

"Evan." Again that pang of longing and want. There is the sound of a book slamming onto a table.

"Stop. That." Harry wonders if Sebastian can feel the hurt and irritation even Harry can hear in Evan's voice. "You are taking shameless advantage of your abilities, and using them quite unfairly, I might add."

"How else am I supposed to get through to you?" Plaintive, but without the added emphasis of Sebastian's empathy.

"Have you tried simply asking and not trying to barge into my private feelings with all the delicacy of a troll in a china shop?" Rosier's voice has an icy edge.

"I was wrong last night, I admit it." Sebastian sighs. "I just didn't know what else to do. You are most unresponsive."

"Just because I don't wear my heart on my sleeve, Sebastian, does not mean that I don't have one. I am very … responsive to you." Harry wonders with dry amusement if that is the closest Evan will ever get to directly admitting that he cares for Sebastian.

"Then why do I feel nothing from you? Even now, when your voice tells me that you're angry. I can't pick up anything. When I touched you the other day, I couldn't feel anything either. Before there was always something."

"How do I feel now?"

"Amused—no, angry—no, pleased." There is a moment of what Harry imagines to be a confused silence. "You're projecting, aren't you? Just deciding upon an emotion and broadcasting it? Evan Rosier, master of illusion, is at it again." There is a hint of bitterness in Sebastian's voice.

Harry sneezes loudly and drops his armloads of books and scrolls in the process.

"Gah. Damn dust," Harry mutters to himself. He takes the handkerchief that Sebastian offers and lets Rosier gather up the books and the scrolls and set them on the table.

"How is the research coming along?" Sebastian asks. His tone of voice is light with a slight waver.

"Slowly," Harry grumbles.

"Lots to read?"

"No, but there are a lot of texts that refer to the duties of the Malfoy heir without actually clarifying what any of those duties are. I suppose they assume that if you are reading the text, then you are a Malfoy and you already know all about them."

"It's not an unreasonable assumption," Sebastian points out.

"No, but it is a damn annoying one."

"Anything I can do to help?" Sebastian asks. Harry looks at Evan, who is extremely focused on the book in front of him.

"Not right now. If I think of anything, I'll let you know." Sebastian nods, and leaves. The sound of his footsteps fades quickly.

"How much did you hear?" Evan asks.

"How much did you want me to hear?" Harry asks in reply. Evan sighs and puts his head in his hands.

"So much for telling him how you feel," Harry mutters.

"I never thought I'd have to," Rosier says, shutting the book and putting in a pile on his right.

"You were never going to say anything, were you? You were going to let him go on this tour, have an arranged marriage, fall in love with someone else, and you were just going to watch?"

There is a horror to that situation that sends chills through Harry. Evan doesn't reply. Harry decides to let the subject drop. After all, it isn't as though he is exactly qualified to give out advice on affairs of the heart himself. He gathers a stack of books that Evan has set aside as having relevant information. "I'm going to read these in Draco's room. The bed is a lot more comfortable than these chairs," he announces. Evan nods and continues turning pages. As soon as Harry leaves the room, he hears the sound of Evan's chair scraping the floor as it is pushed back suddenly and Evan's hurried footsteps echoing through the hall. Harry hopes it means that Evan is running after Sebastian.

Harry enters Draco's room and sighs, shaking his head at Evan and Sebastian. He puts the stack of books on the nightstand and pulls open the drawer. The small velvet box and Draco's diary are the drawer's only contents. Harry opens the box. The serpent glistens in the sunlight. Harry picks it up gingerly and pins the brooch into his shirt and tries to imagine himself as the Malfoy heir.

Something hard hits Harry in the back of the head.

Rubbing the back of his head and muttering all sorts of swear words, Harry turns to see what hit him. It is a book. He picks it up. "Codex Augustine 6th Edition" is embossed on the blue leather cover of a very thick book. Harry picks it up and opens the cover. "Regarding the duties and responsibilities of the Malfoy heir," is written on the first leaf. Harry swears again.

Trust Draco to bother to interlock a summoning charm like that.

Trust Draco to find ways to annoy Harry even post mortem.

With a sigh, Harry opens the book and settles down for a long read.

* * *

So, you know how it goes: read, then review! I will love you forever if you do. No, really, I will.

Love always,

J. Silver

* * *


	31. Awakening sympathies

A/N: I have not died! As you can tell from this update.

Thank you to those who continue to check on this story and remind me that it needs finishing.

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Harry fiddles with the serpent brooch pinned to his blazer. Absently, he thinks that if Lucius doesn't wake up soon, he is going to worry a hole in his lapel. Evan had made him shower and shave and Harry had spent half an hour staring into a wardrobe, not really seeing anything before James had come to his rescue and pulled out something for Harry to put on. Michael had fussed over his hair, or rather had fussed at Harry's hair as Harry made absent attempts to comb it, and then lost patience and cast a spell that fixed Harry's hair for the both of them.

Harry had stared at the brooch in the box for a long time before deciding to wear it.

He had not recognized himself in the mirror. He felt as though he was looking at an old wizarding family portrait. His hair and his clothing, combined with the brooch, had made him look rather stately, though with his coloring, he looked more like a member of the Black Family than a member of the Mafoy family. He looked like a real wizard, he thought. Of course, he had always been a real wizard, but he had never thought of himself as a Wizard. He had only ever thought of himself as "just Harry." However, as Draco had tried to tell him so many times, he had never really been "just Harry," had he? Harry had sighed and looked at his reflection again. Harry the Wizard may have been impressive-looking if he didn't also look like a man going to his execution.

It isn't that Harry doesn't want Lucius to wake up. Harry's hands are shaking and his heart is nearly bursting with the desire to see Lucius awake and well. It's the moment after Lucius wakes up—the moment that Lucius' eyes land on Harry and his expression hardens and the corner of his mouth turns up in disdain and whatever hope Harry has of Lucius being glad to see him dies—that Harry dreads.

He fiddles with the brooch some more and repeats in his head the things he is supposed to say to Lucius. He needs to get it right. It isn't as though one little speech can erase all of Harry's past blunders with Lucius, but maybe he can begin to make amends. No, there is no maybe, Harry decides. He will have to make amends today starting with the moment Lucius woke up. If he waits longer than that, things will only be harder. Harry can't afford to let that happen. If only Lucius will allow him the chance to apologize…

Harry starts when a hand on his shoulder interrupts his anxious thoughts. Harry looks up to see Gabriel smiling at him. The young doctor looks a million times better than Harry feels. "This will work," Gabriel says gently, mistaking the reason for Harry's glum look. Harry smiles weakly and Gabriel gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Harry feels as though he is going to be sick with anxiety and anticipation. He is glad he didn't have breakfast. He is sure that already the house elves would be cleaning it off Lucius' very expensive rugs, if he had. He allows himself a small groan of misery, his lips silently forming the words he wanted to say to Lucius, but eventually he was too worked up even for that.

Sebastian slips his warm hand into Harry's clammy one and says nothing. Harry is beyond being grateful for the contact, at first, but the tightest knots in his stomach slowly loosen and his breathing, which had become erratic, slows down. Harry feels himself relaxing as Sebastian's breathing quickens. It is a moment before Harry realizes what Sebastian is doing and yanks his hand away as if he had been burned. Sebastian looks startled for a moment, then he smiles sheepishly. "You were about to give yourself an anxiety attack," he explains.

"I didn't know you could do that!" Harry hisses, feeling oddly betrayed somehow. It isn't that he wants to feel this miserable, but his misery is his own, damn it! He doesn't want someone meddling with it. Sebastian shrugs.

"Empathy is a lot more complicated than people tend to think. It's a whole branch of magic that deals with sensing and manipulating feelings. In the hands of a stable empath, it's very--" Sebastian pauses, pursing his lips for a moment as he thinks of the right word. "Useful, shall we say?"

"I'll bet," Harry mutters. He glances at Rosier, who winces at Harry in a gesture of sympathy. Suddenly, Harry thinks he is beginning to understand why Rosier is afraid of Sebastian. The two haven't exchanged more than two words in public, though Harry doesn't know if they have exchanged any words at all in private. Harry wonders if it would be appropriate to ask Evan about it, or if that would be prying.

When Lucius' eyes open, it is sudden. Gabriel is at his side instantly. Lucius pushes him away and sits up on his own slowly. His gaze momentarily locks on Harry, who finds his breathing suddenly arrested. Lucius' gaze moves on. Sebastian squeezing his hand serves as a reminder to Harry to breathe again. He feels a crushing sense of disappointment, but it disappears before it shows on his face, courtesy of Sebastian. Instead, Harry feels a grim spark of hope. Lucius had said nothing. Maybe that was better than open contempt? Or perhaps he had settled on ignoring Harry? _It doesn't matter_, Harry tells himself. Harry is going to say his piece whether Lucius wants to hear it or not. Once he has said it, he will be happy to let Lucius decide how to respond, but not until then.

Lucius gives perfunctory answers to Gabriel's questions about his current state of health. His voice is low, but steady. Lucius murmurs thanks to the various well wishes of the others and not wanting to tire him, the others slip out of the room, leaving Harry and Gabriel, who glances from Lucius to Harry and mutters something about seeing that the house elves prepare a suitable meal for Lucius before skedaddling out of the room and shutting the door behind him.

At the sound of the bedroom door closing, a stone settles in Harry's stomach. "You don't look well, Mr. Potter," Lucius says, at length. "Have you been ill?" Harry dares to look up to find Lucius' facial expression to be carefully neutral. His illness has paled his skin and hollowed his cheeks a little, but far from subtracting from Lucius' appeal, these things only added a vulnerable edge to his beauty. How unfair, Harry thinks. Trust Lucius to come out of being poisoned into a coma looking good.

"No, I have not been ill; only worried," Harry replies, matching Lucius' courteous and distant tone.

"Worried?" Lucius echoes, raising an eyebrow. It seems as though he is daring Harry to explain.

"I was concerned for your health, Mr. Malfoy," Harry says, as coolly as possible, resisting the urge to pull his own hair out. Lucius allows his brow to wrinkle slightly and purses his lips a bit.

"Concern for my health has been causing you this much distress? But why, Mr. Potter? What am I to you that you should care?"

"You are… family," Harry replies. The word tastes strange in mouth. He has never said that word without a bitter sense of loss and regret, but this time it feels different. This time there is hope in his uttering. It is a fragile hope, but it is there. Lucius' eyes narrow.

"Come here," he says. Harry rises and walks to Lucius' bedside. He takes the seat Gabriel has stationed there.

"You're wearing the brooch," Lucius says quietly. He reaches for it. Harry does not say anything. He cannot say anything. Cannot seem to make his body obey his command. _Talk!_ Lucius hand brushes Harry's lapel, traces the silver serpent lazily with one finger. Harry can feel the heat of Lucius' skin through the fine cotton of his shirt, and that momentary contact is enough to break his paralysis.

"Yes, I am. I want to apologize for our last conversation." The words come out in a rush of breath. "Our last few conversations," Harry adds. Lucius's brows knit together, as if he is trying to remember what Harry is referring to. His brow smoothes suddenly as he recalls. He leans back amongst the pillows. The movement is graceful, even though Harry knows the exertion must have been great for Lucius.

"Ah, yes, those conversations," he says, dreamily, regretfully. Harry winces.

"I said horrible, hurtful things. Things that I didn't mean—"

"That's enough, Mr. Potter," Lucius says, cutting him off. His face hardens. Suddenly he is cold and remote. Harry feels his heart sinking. Is Lucius so upset that he won't even let Harry apologize, won't even listen?

"It's not enough," Harry continues. "I told one awful lie, in particular—"

"That's enough!" Lucius insists. He looks pained for one fleeting second, and Harry understands. Lucius doesn't even want to think about their last conversations. Even thinking of them for the time it would take Harry to apologize is hurting Lucius. Harry puts his head in his hands. He has not considered that possibility. He is at a loss as to how to proceed.

"You aren't doing this out of some misplaced guilt over a poorly timed accident, are you?" The cold courtesy is gone from Lucius' voice. Lucius voice is tentative, soft. Harry looks up from behind the shield of his hands.

"Your poisoning was an accident?" Harry asks. Lucius gives a slightly sheepish smile that Harry finds annoyingly charming, as everything about Lucius is annoyingly charming to Harry right now. He wonders if that's because he is just so grateful that Lucius is alive and awake or if he has simply forgotten how charming Lucius could be.

"This is embarrassing to admit, Mr. Potter, but I became thoroughly drunk after our last conversation and in my impaired state of judgment failed to remember that fermented heartsease is poisonous. Most love potions simply lose effectiveness altogether after the brewer is dead."

"You knew the bottle was spiked, yet you still drank it?" Harry raises his eyebrows. It sounds like the sort of thing Draco would have condemned as "reckless Gryffindor stupidity." Oddly, it makes Harry angry.

"Impaired state of judgment," Lucius repeats firmly, but decidedly not looking at Harry, who suddenly feels very responsible for Lucius' impaired state of judgment, if despair can rightly be called an "impaired state of judgement."

"Why was your wife trying to slip you a love potion anyway?" Harry grumbles, irrationally angry at Narcissa. If the bottle hadn't been poisoned, Harry would not have had to suffer the pain of nearly losing Lucius or the newfound guilt of realizing he was the reason he had almost lost Lucius. Sebastian and Lestrange had been right about that. Harry had almost lost the last thing he had to his own cowardice. He can admit that now, but not without feeling his stomach churn with self-loathing.

"Narcissa's illness was a long and difficult one. She wanted to be sure that I would stay with her and love her until the end," Lucius says carefully. Harry is so startled that Lucius answered his question that it takes him a moment to respond.

"Yet you never drank the potion—while she was alive," he amends.

"I didn't need it," Lucius says evenly, meeting Harry's gaze. Harry allows himself a small nod of respect and understanding. Lucius raises an eyebrow ever so slightly.

They stare at each other for a moment. Lucius looks at Harry carefully, as if waiting for him to change his mind or pull away. Harry simply stares back, biting back the apology that Lucius does not seem to want to hear. He waits for Lucius to say something else. He does not have to wait long.

"Are you sure that you want to do this? It won't be easy and many people will not like you for it. You will be tied to my house until all records crumble. Everything that is ours will be yours: our titles, our properties, our sins. Your reputation may not be enough to protect you from public backlash." Lucius tone is sharp. Harry is stunned at the harshness of Lucius' voice, but only momentarily.

"My reputation has never been enough to protect me from public backlash," Harry says with a roll of his eyes. "Are you trying to make me change my mind? I thought you wanted me to do this."

"I want you to do this willingly, and with your eyes wide open. Don't think this is a mere trifle or a formality, and don't think it will be something you can back out of lightly once it is done," Lucius tone is still sharp. Harry feels the anger rising in him. He clenches his fists and looks away. How dare Lucius think that Harry wasn't taking this seriously? "Do not martyr yourself on my account, or Draco's, Mr. Potter. It's not something either of us want for you." Lucius voice is soft, but clear. Harry's anger fades and he nods once, before meeting Lucius' eyes.

"You understand the responsibilities and duties of the Malfoy heir?" Lucius asks.

"Yes," Harry replies, wincing slightly at the memory smacked in the head with the Codex Augustine.

"You accept these duties?" Lucius asks. There is a bare hint of suspicion in Lucius' voice. Harry allows himself a small grin of grim triumph. This part of the conversation he is prepared for.

"Yes, by right of choice and by right of blood—both the blood that Draco spilled on my behalf and the blood oath we've sworn to one another—I claim the position of Malfoy heir," Harry says smoothly. It is strange how suddenly his anxieties quiet after he says that last bit. _I claim the position of Malfoy heir_—and it is as if the world, which had been previously topsy-turvy, has righted itself again. No butterflies or stones in his stomach, no guilt or fear wreaking havoc in his head. Just a surprising calm and clarity.

"My word, you actually read the thing properly," Lucius says approvingly. Harry tries not to blush and rolls his eyes instead.

"I'm taking this very seriously and I'm trying to do it all properly," he says pointedly. Lucius nods.

"You will accept my instruction in this matter?"

"Yes, of course," Harry agrees readily.

"Then it is done," Lucius says, extending his hand. Harry takes it.

And nearly drops it in shock.

It burns, like a fever and it rushes through his veins swifter than any potion Harry's ever taken and it leaves him dizzy and breathless and aching for more—in short, it's everything Harry feels about Lucius condensed into one charged instant.

"What in the name of all that is magic was that?" Lestrange asks as he and his cousins burst into the room. Harry jerks back his hand from Lucius. If he had not been seated, he probably would be on his knees, stunned into collapse by the rush of emotions that have just hit him.

"What?" Harry asks, flexing his hand and trying to get himself to breathe normally.

"That feeling. It felt like I narrowly missed getting struck by lightening. The hair on the back of my neck is still standing on end," Lestrange explains. His eyes dart from Harry to Lucius and back to Harry again, demanding an answer.

"Harry is the Malfoy heir," Sebastian says calmly. He smiles. "I can feel it. The house is pleased—very pleased. Why?"

"The house is sentient?" Rosier asks in surprise. Sebastian looks startled to be directly addressed by Evan. _So, still not talking then_, Harry thinks dryly.

"Er… sort of. The magic of the house has moods. It happens in places where a lot of magic is concentrated for a very long time," Sebastian explains. Lestrange rolls his eyes, clearly uninterested.

"Yeah, it's great that the house is happy. Would someone like to explain what just happened? Lucius?" Trust Michael to want to get straight to the point.

"Harry and I are magically sympathetic," Lucius announces. The "of course" is silent, unspoken, but evident from his tone. _Smug git_, Harry thinks, inwardly rolling his eyes.

"You're not serious!" Michael says, eyes wide with incredulity.

"I am very serious," Lucius replies with a smile.

"Draco and I were sympathetic, but…" Harry trials off, shaking his head.

"It didn't feel like that?" Lucius asks, still smiling, except this time he's smiling at Harry.

"No, it didn't," Harry replies, feeling oddly flustered to see Lucius smile at him in such a warm and open way. For a moment, Harry regrets even thinking that Lucius is a smug git. Surely smug gits can't smile like that, as if Harry has given Lucius the greatest gift ever?

"There are many theories on sympathetic magic. Some say that you can be partially sympathetic to people who are related to the one you are truly sympathetic. Others say that family members are naturally sympathetic to one another. Sympathetic heirs make the best choice even amongst family members. My guess is that, since Draco and I were largely sympathetic, you were somewhat sympathetic to him, but you're truly sympathetic to me."

"But when you and I have touched before, it's never felt like that."

"Well, your glamour would have altered your magical signature—changed you slightly. Did you notice any new talents as Scryer?"

"I wasn't as abysmal at divination," Harry says with a shrug. "But we touched before the glamour changed me, too."

"Sympathetic magic is meant to a binding force. When sympathetic partners are fighting one another—"

"The force is weakened, but the two partners are drawn together, even if in conflict," Harry says, quoting from Draco's favorite book, the one Harry had shared with Sebastian.

"The contact accompanying such confrontation being necessary to satisfy the magical forces at work," Lucius finishes the quote, continuing to smile generously at Harry.

Pieces of Harry's life seem to click into place almost audibly: his attraction to Draco and Lucius, his inability to resist being drawn into bickering matches with Draco, the deep satisfaction he got from negotiating with Lucius during the war, why Lucius pursued him so doggedly.

"This is the first time you and I have met without being at odds somehow," Harry says. Lucius nods.

No, they are not at odds anymore. He and Lucius are family now by some weird twist of magic and fate--and by choice, Harry reminds himself. He has chosen Lucius, just as Lucius and Draco had chosen him.

"This is wonderful!" Gabriel says, being the first to recover from the shock. He beams as if he truly can't imagine anything greater.  
"Yes, it is," Rosier agrees, smiling warmly.

"Now we can have you cast all the healing charms on Lucius. Since you are magically sympathetic, they'll take better if you cast them," Gabriel says, collapsing into an available chair.

"You're just making that up," Harry accuses.

"What? You don't want to play nursemaid to Uncle Lucius?" Sebastian asks. Everyone turns to look at Harry with faces full of faux seriousness. Harry huffs in defeat.

"Fine," he says. "I'll cast the charms, but I draw the line at sponge baths."

"Sure, take all the fun out of being an invalid, why don't you?" Lucius says in a leisurely drawl. Harry glares at Lucius even as he feels a blush creep across his face. Lucius' expression is placid, giving away nothing. As usual, Harry can't tell whether or not Lucius is serious.

* * *

You know how it works, darlings. Read and review. Comments and criticisms welcome!

Love always,

J. Silver


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